


These Things Come in Threes

by BonJiro



Category: DBZ - Fandom, Dragon Ball
Genre: Because Bulma's mother is a peach, Bulma and Goku friendship is on siblings level, Bulma taking none of Vegeta's shit, Business Bulma, Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dr Briefs is also awesome, Dragonball nostalgia, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evolving Relationship, F/M, Friendship/Love, Goku and Vegeta moments, I Will Go Down With This Ship, In Character, Launch will be in it too, Love Games, Mother-Daughter Relationship, New twists on old couples, No Yamcha bashing, Psychological Warfare, Slow Burn, Snarky Banter, Surly Saiyan Princes and the Blue haired Scientists who put up with them, The explosion still happened but Vegeta never left Earth after Namek, Trips to Kame House, Vegeta angst obviously and brooding, With nods to anime, in depth character thoughts, long chapters, spiteful/bitter vegeta, three years fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 77,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonJiro/pseuds/BonJiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were all prepared for the worst, hurtling ever closer toward the inevitable encounter with the Androids and their own potential destruction. Stress is high, the odds are stacked; the future looks rather bleak as everyone struggles to prepare.</p>
<p>But counted days can be precious. Even the rarest opportunity can become obvious, if one has the courage not to see it squandered. </p>
<p>And, as one unlikely pair are about to discover, only a very small degree of Hope is sufficient to cause the birth of Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee, Strawberries, and Cigarettes

There was a good reason she never let her mother see her room.

Binding folders of every colour sat stacked in lopsided towers. A wire wastebin overflowed with rubbish and paper alike, and a few dog eared books and magazines were offset by small piles of clothes here and there. The bedsheets lay tussled and askew under several more pillows than necessary, lined at each side by wooden end tables that bore neglected lamps, used mugs and one sticker covered alarm clock. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the mess was mostly shrouded in darkness.

The soft glow of her laptop was only enough to illuminate the desk it sat upon, making crisp silhouettes of the crumpled notes strewn about empty wrappers of various snackfoods—chips, the odd chocolate bar—and three empty punnets of strawberries to surround an idle left hand. The keyboard was sticky on one side with an old coffee stain, and everytime the computer was opened, the scent of it seemed renewed somehow, sweet and almost sickly. All was silent save the muffled shifting of her mouse and the click of it every few seconds, followed by the sharp few taps of number keys. Despite this quiet calm, the bedroom was in such a state of disarray that chaos seemed present anyway. It was far more the abode of a teenager than that of a woman nearing thirty, and in fact a few posters from college years still remained, tattered and scribbled on as they now were.

But nonetheless, its owner had little intent to rectify this any time soon, though the to-do list tacked to her door said otherwise.

Perched upon an old office chair, the blue haired heiress to the Capsule Corporation fortune sat slightly hunched with knees tucked close to her chest, letting a pensive gaze flit about the square of light before her. In the privacy of her darkened squalor, she wore little more than a pink nightgown, unflattering with long sleeves, that just covered her thighs. The up-do of curls she styled during the day fell languid now that the spell of the curling iron had grown weak, the afro-like perkiness resembling something more of short ringlets now night had fallen. Her make up had been removed since retiring to her room as well.

Bulma Briefs would not be caught dead outside of her bedroom like this, of course, and so it was clear that she intended on staying put... It was also clear she had not seen company in her room for a while, and that no gentleman caller would grace it tonight, either.

Almost unconsciously, her left hand shifted to brush the empty bottom of a punnet, and only when her fingers found no prize did her attention wander from the screen. Blue brows furrowed some as she dragged the container closer to her, peering expectantly in the dim glow. The luscious red of her strawberries was now only a disappointing few tufts of green leaves and discarded white tops.

"Great..." she pouted, shoving the plastic aside with a sigh.  _Well, I guess that's it for tonight... I'm not going all the way down to the kitchen like this... unless everybody is in bed by now._

Humming thoughtfully, her gorgeous features contorted into a look of sly curiosity, cerulean gaze snapping to check the time at the bottom corner of her screen. It was only then she realised how long she had spent working over yet another design schematic, drawn into her own little world of calculation, and now past five o'clock in the morning warned of a swiftly approaching dawn. Her jaw dropped a little as she stared offended by such a number. Lies, surely.

She turned quickly, elbow propped upon the back of her chair as her head whipped to catch sight of her alarm clock, and Bulma was almost certain of a conspiracy when the red numbers matched that of her laptop. Defeated, the heiress could only hang her head with a tired shake, bringing a thumbnail to her lip to chew.

_Well, I guess that answers that question._

"Ugh... Bulma, you are going to work yourself to death, one of these days..." she muttered around her nail, and rolling her eyes at herself, lazily shifted to stand. "So much for sleep."

_Oh, but sleep is for the weak, anyway,_ she thought with a stretch,  _that's what the ape would say._

Her amusement faded quickly at the thought, and her arms would flop to her sides as a distasteful grimace took her. Vegeta. Suffice to say, Bulma was more or less fed up with the surly saiyan darkening the halls of her home, but she supposed she had brought that upon herself.

_That's what I get for being nice,_ she scoffed internally, snatching a half empty packet of cigarettes from the cluttered desk;  _It's not like I even got a 'thank you' from him, and he's already cost us a small fortune to put up, **and** an entire ship's worth of equipment_.  _He's still rude, does nothing to help around the house or anything..._   _Here I am, going over new pressure systems to offset the energy output of both him and the insane amounts of gravity he wants to train in, and what do I get for it?_

"Oooh, pain is  _nothing_  to me. Leave me alone,  _Woman_. I don't  _need_ anybody's help, I can _kill myself_ on my own..." came a terrible and sarcastic impression of her 'favourite' person, waving her hands about dramatically. Slow steps weaved her quickly around a pile of clothes and toward the sliding door of her balcony with a frown. "...Sure as hell could use the help of a good psychiatrist, for one!" she hissed as if he could hear her upon the cool breeze of night, glass shuddering to the force used as it rolled to one side.

Bare feet padded softly over stone tile to send a slight shiver through her, but that was why she favoured the pink nightgown—ugly though it may have been, it was thick and warm. Leaning against the balustrade to scan the stars above, Bulma wondered idly of her friends as the cigarette was lifted to her lip. There was absolutely no doubting Vegeta came from another planet entirely, that was for sure; his hair alone could attest to that, even before you found out he was a sociopathic, mass murdering, obsessive-compulsive, planet-jacking were-ape douche that could both fly and punch anything into orbit...

_...and a Prince,_ she added mentally, letting a cynical grimace take her,  _can't forget that. He'd never forgive me, for all the effort he puts into reminding everybody._

But Goku had fallen from those stars above as well. More specifically, the very same set of stars that Vegeta hailed from and secretly she couldn't help but marvel at that. It was like comparing chalk and cheese. He had changed her life, among so many others, and with them the very destiny of Earth itself. Gohan, too—he was so different to his father, and yet, so very alike in habit and heart... Even Piccolo hailed from a distant star, the planet Namek, which she had sworn never to return to; new or not.

With a small flicker of flame, a few memories sparked with it as a light puff of smoke was lost to the night, and she smiled. It seemed like only a few years ago, she had found the tailed boy that started all of this.

A Sweet Sixteenth birthday over the summer was normal enough, and to protect the presents from his spoiled daughter, Doctor Briefs had stashed them away in a place he thought she would not look... But Bulma knew her father all too well, and it wasn't long before her secret searching came to an end within their basement. She never did peek at what he'd bought for her though, in fact, she'd received her presents with all the surprise intended upon her actual birthday. When the heiress had rifled through the boxes and old draws below, it was a dragonball she found instead and, taken with the peculiar find, set about researching.

A self satisfied smirk crossed her features as she traced the moonless skies. What was it, a mere two days of fiddling about with energy signature recognition before she managed to design a working prototype for the radar? Within a week over the summer vacation, she'd set out on a road trip and found another of the mystical baubels and was well on her way to the next...

_...Until Goku wandered out with that massive fish and totalled my car,_ she giggled at the memory, tapping the cigarette over the balcony and watching the ashes drift down.

From there it seemed life had unfolded with so many twists and turns, a flurry of adventure and experience one simply could never have imagined or planned for passing in the blink of an eye. Her first love, all of her friends, the world tournements... and of course, King Piccolo. Goku had grown into a handsome man, with a worried wife in Chichi and a smart boy in Gohan. She and Yamcha... Well, they were off and on through the years, but Bulma knew she'd always care for him.

A light roll of her eyes came with a sigh—she had sworn she'd marry him, when she was younger and a little more idealistic... but as the years rolled by, the heiress wasn't sure she would ever be married. Truth be told, she no longer truly cared for the idea, though that didn't mean Bulma had no idea what to expect or hadn't already planned it all out.

She would wear white and powdery blues, and the cermony would be held in her mother's gardens by the fountain, an aisle lined by blue orchids set to frame her upon a white laced altar. Her father smiling proudly as his beautiful baby girl strolled gracefully down the carpet runner, her mother dabbing happy tears away and wearing pearls... That all sounded lovely enough, until she accounted for the rest.

She could already imagine it all ruined by gaudy orange outfits as far as the eye could see. One purple turtle shell in the front row strapped over a tropical print shirt, a triplet of eyes staring up from all the pairs and Krillin's bald head adding painful glare to every photo.

An entire buffet would be devoured and a wedding cake picked at before Goku sat uncomfortably in a hideous brown—or heavens forbid, purple—suit and bow tie, awkwardly tugging at the stiff material that no doubt hid his gi beneath. Chichi would have Gohan in much the same, straighting his clothes at every opportunity and chastising everyone in an attempt to control the affair. Maid of Honour; made of anger.

Oolong would nasally make snide remarks as he aided in devouring the food too soon and in general, make a pig of himself in more ways than one. Launch would arrive late, bring a duffel bag full of unexplained money as a gift, and sooner or later, be the cause of both Tien's early departure and the last of the punch—if not the start of the wine—to be consumed. Puar would likely be both the ringbearer and the cushion the ring sat upon, and all the while, Piccolo would sit aloof like a sore—green—thumb and ignore it all from his place under a tree.

Oh yeah, that sounded like the  _perfect_  day.

About the only thing that did seem desirable in her fantasy wedding was her dress, the cake—before anybody arrived, that is—and her future husband. He would be standing smartly beside her in a black suit, with a pristine white silk shirt beneath it and an icy blue tie. Hands held behind his back, he'd await her with that intimately fond shimmer in sharp eyes. Handsome, calm and collected, a blue rose suarvely tucked into his lapel. The husband she so often used to dream of was, of course...

...Faceless.

A stab of guilt hit her and a longer drag was taken than usual, the harshness of it scratching her throat. She'd gone a year free of the habit, but within the last few weeks, she'd picked it back up. Yamcha would've had a fit if he knew she was smoking again... she had promised him after all, and it almost felt like a small betrayal. Betrayal, yes, there was a strange undertow of that between them over the past few years. It wasn't that Yamcha was a bad guy, or even that he wasn't good enough for it, but if one thing hadn't changed since those old days it was the attention he received from other women.

The difference was, now that he had overcome his nerves, Yamcha was prone to returning those advances.

She had tried to fit him into the suit so many times, and paint his scarred visage—handsome and rugged—upon the unknown figure standing with her to be wed. Sometimes, she thought it may make things so much simpler if she could. Before the first time they had broken up, she saw his eyes in the dream of her wedding crisply, the lines of his face and every detail of the bandit's boyish good looks grinning back at her. But once the magic had dimmed some and their romance took its first dive, his features had grown indistinct. Only a vague smile that reminded her loosely of him and his scent around her, maybe his laugh distantly echoing. The second time they had gotten back together saw nothing but the black of his hair, and perhaps some blurred and distant remnant of what was once so clearly him.

But Bulma knew now that wasn't Yamcha's place, and likely never had been. Forcing him into it was something she never wanted for them, and though a great many things could be said for their past, the future loomed to say very little. Another memory had risen to steal the horizon, and just as fresh as the moment she had met Goku or Yamcha were the awful sounds of gunfire and her heart beating wild with fear and panic. Helicopters, biege uniforms, and the cold eyes of wanton killers; each adorned by the crimson hourglass turned on its side. Indeed, an hourglass was all she could see of the emblem, now...

The Red Ribbon Army stalked them still, and threatened only death where once there might have been her wedding. No, she had let such childish things go, piece by piece, and surrendered them to the shadows clouding her future. Bulma had come to terms with the reality of things, the humble cynicism of accepting that there was no wedding around her corner, that Yamcha and a few others and even herself might well be dead in three years, and that the Androids were presently all anyone had to look forward to.

Bleak, perhaps, but these things come in threes. Three Dragonballs to begin, three years counting down to a potential end, and three breakups to signal a definate end.

It was the very least Bulma could do for her old flame, not to let him waste any time being driven by expectations. There was no sense in letting him believe his future—if he had one—should be spent with her, just to suit old habits or be drawn out for the opinion of others. Between his baseball career and her work for the Corporation, it was no surprise she and Yamcha hadn't much time for each other like they used to, and more and more things just kept pulling them apart. All his spare time would be spent training now, and hers would go towards whatever equipment Yamcha or Vegeta needed to prepare. Nerves were frazzled, arguments were common, the clock was ticking, and old problems still darkened her dwindling love life.

It was better to start fresh, let go and get on with life—or what might well be left of it—than to let the both of them flounder about picking up the pieces, least of all now. If, when all was said and done, the dust settled they were still alive and well, perhaps then they could think about rebuilding a battered relationship that had long suffered from neglect.

Slender fingers swept her brow with a tired exhale, wisping smoke from her lip in a silent sigh.  _I guess I'll talk to him later... I'll call Kame house and see if him and Krillin are still sparring,_ she finally conceded within herself, letting the corner of her mouth tick with some reluctance.  _It's all for the best, and he knows just as well as I do we just don't have it like we did..._

That awkward fluster that stole Yamcha's face when Goku mentioned a baby was enough to tell as it was. Yamcha was in no mind to be settling down and having a family, and though Bulma could only guess Goku meant well with a light hearted joke at the couple's expense, the timing made the both of them think. They hadn't even talked of it since, as if avoiding the subject altogether, but Bulma knew they both had been mulling it over... it hung over their heads like a cloud, marring the future.

What if they did both survive the Androids? ...Was that what they had to look forward to? Settling down into some boring humdrum of normalcy, until she took over for her father and he outgrew his prime to settle into a penpushing job within the Corporation?  _Her_  Yamcha? The free-spirited bandit, the shy goofy type turned sly winking playboy, with his cola advert and team sponserships as he grinned down from the side of buildings in his baseball uniform and gave a cocky ' _Let the bubbles lift you higher!_ ' to the world below?

No. Their romance worked on excitement, and she was old enough to understand that now. It was a thing of passion, a whirlwind of chaos and exuberence. They kept each other young, and the appeal of it lay in that fact—when they were together, they had an excuse to be teenagers, to be selfish and unabatedly carefree. They didn't have to face tomorrow, because they kept each other too busy within the moment.

There was no room for a child, or marriage, in such a dynamic.

Yamcha would make a fantastic father, when he was ready for it, and Bulma would defend that to the day she died; any child they had would be well loved and well adjusted. But the same simply couldn't be said for a marriage between them, and having a baby was no way to make it so.

_I mean, where would the passion be then? We'd always be friends, sure..._ A final puff of silver smoke left her before Bulma ground out the butt and idly flicked it over the edge.  _But there's no magic in it anymore. We can't keep this up forever. I can't stand all the flirting and the girls, he can't stand my moods, we disagree on so many things; we'd just be going through the motions! I don't want to live like that, and neither does he._

Her eyes would close briefly, as if mournful, and knew it had to be so.  _It was great while it lasted, though..._

Leaning back some, she rolled her shoulders in a shrug and let her gaze roam the lonely silhouette of the gravity capsule below. It seemed strange to look at it idle, without the haunting red glow through port windows and the electric hum of use buzzing through the air.

"...Healthy baby... Oh, Goku, I'm sorry. I wish it were that simple... I really do." long lashes blinked slow as she mused to herself, languid curls of blue feathering against the base of her neck. "Maybe Saiyans are just crazy and don't get how life works if it doesn't involve punching things. Yeah... that's got to be it."

A light hearted giggle escaped her for the joke, but it was hard to break her mind from its sombre course. There was no way in hell she was in any mood to continue working on the pressure system. In fact, if anything, it only put more strain on her need for strawberries. She struggled with herself, visibly swaying to and fro and cringing at the decision.

"Yes... no... yes, no... yes..." she muttered to herself, and with a deep inhale to steel her resolve, the quest to the kitchen was on.

"Oh, what the hell. It's my house, who cares...?" she told herself quickly, turning to carelessly toss her cigarettes on top of the outside table and hopping through the mess of her room with practiced ease. The turning tumbler of her door made her wince, somehow seeming louder than ever before, but as a mess of blue curls peeked out of her room, the hallway was dark and empty. Just to be sure, Bulma waited for a moment, listening for any footsteps or movement as her gaze scanned up and down the corridor, and when finally she was satisfied, she slipped out and closed the door slowly behind.

Like a ferret, she took to standing on her toes, peering over at the stairs before a few light bounds carried her swiftly toward them, and she fancied herself catlike as arms were held out in balance. She knew it would look ridiculous if she were seen, but some small part of her was convinced that these actions would aid her stealth. Gentle fingertips caressed the walls of the stairway as she darted down. Around the corner, half way now, she peered again and found it clear, hopping lightly until bare feet found the plush cream carpet of the loungeroom.

A light breath of relief and satisfaction left her then as her arms fell to her sides, job done. Over her shoulder, she shot a victorious smirk to the stairs, having conquered them, and took towards the large archway of the kitchen, pleased with herself. No lights on, either. Good. Even so, she paused before flipping the switch, and convinced of being alone, the click illuminated her prize with a few blinks before the light was steady.

The fridge—that beautiful monster of chromed steel and doubled glass, fully stocked for all to see and pilfer. She could already see the delicious red of plump strawberries, nestled in sweetly beside the lettuce, waiting for her to liberate them. Distance closed within seconds, Bulma barely registered the cold floor under her feet or the frigid gust as the fridge door swung wide. Only the giddy feel of the plastic punnet as she snatched it quickly, filling a free hand with an indulgently spotted container of cream and turning away to close the door with a negligent push of her hip.

_Spoils_ , she thought greedily, wearing a naughty smile as she put her prizes down on the counter, flipping the kettle on for good measure—she needed her coffee, if she was to get through the day without sleep. As the tell tale whistle began to bubble low, she would lean against the countertop and walk two fingers toward the fruit, skillfully opening the top of their container with little more than a flick and plucking up a strawberry without mercy.

But just as the sweet scent of it hit her nose, hovering mere inches from her lips, from the corner of her eye a shadow moved beyond the archway. She froze, her head whipping to cast frantic eyes into the darkness of the loungeroom, tracing each silhouette with sharp suspicion. She strained to hear, but with the kettle warming beside her, found no purchase. Slowly, Bulma leaned forward to look, as if whatever was hiding there might be just behind the wall, and hesitant, made a move to investigate.

She stood awkwardly on the threshold of the room, glancing about with paranoid curiosity, somehow terrified to make that last step onto soft carpet. Something landed upon the leather of the couch, and she gasped, flinching back as her heart skipped a beat. Immediately, her attention fixed to the origin, she found a set of eyes staring back at her and as she studied them in the dark, her hand lifted to rest over her chest in relief. Her father's cat, of course, and upon sighting her it let forth a purr from the shadows, blending into them seamlessly save only for the shimmer of light on his fur from the kitchen. His tail twitched and he wondered of the possibilty that she may feed him.

The heiress eyed him intently, feeling silly for it all, and gave a grimace. Paranoia gone, she approached the back of the couch with a forgiving smile, and giggled some to the welcoming meow as her fingers brushed over his head.

"I bet you think you're funny, huh? Well, too bad, buster. I'm not giving you anything after that, you can forget it." poking her tongue out, she was quick to leave him, wandering back to the kitchen as the cat watched, forlorn.

Shaking her head with a wisp of curls, Bulma finally popped the strawberry in her mouth, completely ignoring the cold floor as she swept back toward the whining kettle. She had no regrets in that moment, letting the juices swirl about her tongue with flavour, and felt the overwhelming urge to have another one immediately—this time with cream. She wasn't at all surprised when she heard the light padding of something approaching from behind, and smirking to herself, she considered taking back what she'd said and pouring some off for the cat.

"Oh, alright. You can have some cream, but that's it! You can butter me up all you like, but no more until breakfast, you got that?" she teased over her shoulder, focussed on ripping the seal away.

Her blood turned to ice, however, when the 'cat' responded in a dark and gravelled tone.

"I'll eat whatever I damn well feel like, Woman."

_...Oh, you've gotta be shitting me..._  Her face contorted quickly into one of embarrassed despair, and praying to any force that would hear her, Bulma bit her lip to prevent any cursing. Refusing to turn around, she pretended instead to busy herself with coffee making, reaching upward to grab a cup from the cupboard quickly.

"...Good morning to you too, Vegeta." she mused sarcastically, feeling awkward and subdued. "And just so you know, I was talking to the cat, thank you very much. So... What has  _you_  up so early...?" she could only hope the nervous waver to it didn't draw any attention.

He stood within the archway, bulky arms folded over his chest, and settled a dark gaze upon his host with blatant scrutiny. Though she wouldn't see it, the sneering reply was enough to infer his scowl was slightly fiercer than usual, and the surly Prince seemed all to content to let it burn a hole in the back of her head for such an idiotic question.

"You know better than anyone my training always begins at six. I'm in no mood for your stupidity, so if it's all the same, keep your coy small talk to a minimum." he growled from behind her, narrowing his eyes with impatience. Almost as an aside, he added low, "...If you can."

A moment of silence—golden silence, in Vegeta's opinion—fell about the kitchen then, something tense appearing to thicken the air before the clatter of a spoon rang out, negligently cast aside. Bulma fought the urge to turn and face him, forcefully having to stop herself, though her head did cock to one side. Glaring at him tiredly from the very corner of her eye, she drew a long and patient breath, biting her cheek as her tone became strained.

"Vegeta, what day is it?" she asked suddenly, expectant though she knew the answer already.

The Saiyan audibly scoffed behnd her as he began toward the fridge, almost in a point of brushing her off. "Don't be ridiculous. It's Friday." the door opened with a shunt, and the cold draft that filled the air only highlighted the bitterness to it.

"Yep, it is. You and I had a deal, Vegeta. Friday is your weekly day off, or I stop all upgrades until you take one. So, I'll ask again..." it was somewhere between motherly and nagging, as Bulma turned her head back to her task, but to finish it switched to something condescendingly innocent. " _Why_ are you up so early?"

From behind the glass pane in the fridge door, Vegeta's head set into a slow incline toward her once again, and an inately evil expression was thankfully missed by her—it was a miracle the glass didn't shatter for bearing the brunt of it. Bare fingers tightened their grip upon the chrome frame enough that indentation would be clear when they left it, and hatefully, the Saiyan seethed a deadly calm hiss through sharp teeth.

"I  _told_  you, Woman. I  _train_ at  _six_."

Bulma was quick to match him, equally as forceful as she went about pouring the water.

" _Not_ on  _Fridays_. If you even think about going out there, I'll deactivate the capsule entirely and you can train out on the damn lawn for a week." despite their back and forth, she had fetched another mug and poured it full, and before the Prince could get another word in, Bulma's tone cheered. "Milk, please."

Gritting his teeth, he would blatantly ignore her request, angered by the fact she would even make it in the current context of discussion. There should not have  _been_ a discussion. How dare she interfere into his affairs so far as to deny him an entire day, every week, in which to make progress? Had she even done the math behind that as to how much time wasted that amounted to annually, over three years? And  _still_ , she asserted that she was a genius. It was as infuriating as it was infantile, and just the notion that had she worked that all out and seen no problem with it was enough to make him paranoid of how shoddy her technical work actually was.

No doubt the mechanisms he trained with operated on zipties and paperclips to hold them together... but then, that was what had started this ridiculous farce of concern.

His left eye ticked, and slamming the fridge door shut with remarkable restraint, set about her with a snarl. "Woman, I will make this as monosyllabic as possible, for the final time. I don't  _care_ what  _you_   _want_ me to do. I care about what  _I need to do_." he paced steadily to her side, laying a palm flat against the countertop and growling as he faced her profile, whether she looked to him or not. A thumb was jutted to his chest and stubbornly, he bore his teeth. "I need to surpass Kakarot. I need to become a Super Saiyan, and now, I need to do this on schedule. The fact that you've developped a guilt complex for your half-arsed piece of garbage blowing up with me inside of it, is none of my concern. So, unless you have a deathwish three years from now, or right here in this kitchen, I'll be training  _at six_."

Bulma's self conscious avoidance was shattered almost as quickly as her ability to hold her tongue at this time of the morning. Abandoning the half made coffees, her own hand slammed down upon the counter like a dueling gauntlet, she turned to him with a look of indignity. It took her a moment to run the fact he'd actually gone there through her mind, but as soon as she had hold of his audacity, her gaping mouth spat acid and her features twisted into an affronted frown.

"Excuse me?! I had nothing to do with it! That ship was a breakthrough in technology engineered by my father—a master, and pioneer in his field—to suit  _your_  crazy demands! It was an  _improvement_  on the design Goku used! He told you not to take it over two-fifty with the droids,  _you're_  the one who breached the structual integrity by ignoring him! State of the art gravitational generator and four military class shield droids up in smoke, along with an entire ship fitted for travel and almost my housewith them, you jerk!"

Slender brows knitted together in fierce mimicry of his expression, and waving a hand to emphasise it all, Bulma suddenly found her finger poking his scarred chest in sharp jabs. "Do you have  _any_  idea what that cost us? You're lucky you drained the fuel cells, or this whole compound could've—Ow!"

She hadn't even seen his hand move, but still her fragile wrist was caught within a vice-like grip, precision rippling within cordlike muscle in his forearm, threatening to tighten further. Within an instant he had calculated the pressure needed to cause sharp pain, without doing any real damage, and as it shot up her arm like searing fire in her veins, it gave her frantic pause. An effortless tug drew her forward, jerked toward him so that his dark features clouded all of her gaze, and blue eyes widened with some shock—she'd never been handled by him like this, and unexpected as it was, she found a chilling line drawn in the sand. A rush swept her spine, sending her whole body on defense, tense as it seized like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car.

The Saiyan's sharp eyes cornered her easily, predatory orbs like dunnest smoke amidst a white sea, and only inches from her face, the dark circles about his eyes were obvious. Bulma was not the only one to have pulled an all nighter, it seemed, and Vegeta's visage this close boasted a few of them... it easily explained why he was more surly than usual, though suddenly his aggression was nowhere to be found. A calm had taken his features, and with it, the harsh lines his face drew morbid serenity as he stared her down. Inclining his chin, she saw his eyes twitch to narrow, brief and concise as his tongue clicked.

"I could've sworn by the look on your face, when last I told you to leave me be, that you had realised your being a hinderence... But allow me to clarify further." his voice was quiet, somehow smoother, and unnerving in how emotionally barren it came. "A Saiyan's power increases dramatically each time we recover from a near death experience. Thanks to your shabby workmanship, I had one. I recovered enough to stand, and therefore, train. Training during that recovery can potentially boost my increase in strength, by prolonging the healing process. It was this technique of drawing out injuries that allowed my Father to topple the Tuffle army with so few numbers, after weakening them with a moonlight assault previously."

Cerulean eyes wavered over his with some confusion, though what he said made enough sense—it was given so bluntly, so cold and factual... and yet, it was the first time he had ever mentioned his father. It hit her mind like a wave crashing upon the shore, and Bulma was no longer unnerved, but intrigued. The tiniest tidbit of his history, and an entire curtain was pulled aside to reveal reason behind his madness. How much more of him could be unlocked by the past's key? It almost saddened her, in some small way, that he mentioned it so distantly, so factually, without even a hint of the pride he took in his heritage.

One of his brows twitched upward in question, and his gaze sharpened over a warning. "...Or perhaps you fancy yourself more familiar with Saiyan biology than my father, the King? Maybe he should've taken every Friday off, as well, and let the Tuffles rebuild their forces."

Her gorgeous features twisted into bemusement, and squinting with something akin to disbelief, the discomfort of her wrist seemed suddenly lessened. "...Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me that my arranging medical attention for you that day..." she paused, words dancing on the tip of her tongue as her head shook ever so slightly, trying to make sense of it. "... _stifled_ you?"

The corner of his mouth ticked upward, and the ghost of his smirk—that awful, smackworthy smirk—appeared. "So there is a brain in there. Little miracles." As if it were the prize for a correct answer, his brows rose a fraction and the steely grip released, his arms returning to their default position over his chest. "I told you I didn't need—or want—your help, Woman, because what helps a human only holds a Saiyan back. Now, I  _am_  going to train... and should anything go awry, I don't want to wake up with you at my bedside again. I want to wake up in the rubble, in a pool of my own blood, ready to receive the benefits it brings me. Understand?"

Stepping back to put some distance between them, Bulma couldn't help but stare, studying him like a grotesque new development in a petry dish and wondering what had happened. She blinked a few times, and though her mind simply screamed at her to nod and get the milk and just leave well enough alone, the rest of her rational mind couldn't quite let it all go so easily. Her mouth opened and closed, and then a quick breath was taken to speak, though nothing came. She turned back to the mugs, glanced back at him, and then sent a vacant stare toward the kettle as her lips remained parted and lost for words.

And then they came bursting forth anyway, a thousand thoughts coming to a swift halt in her head to converge on a single point—this man was actually insane.

"...What  _world_  do you live in?! I held you back? What does that even mean? You idiot, you would have  _died_  if not for me that day!" her hands flew up before she could restrain them, caught utterly disbelief as she was, and blue curls whipped about as her gaze snapped to him again, wide eyed. "The only reason it was  _near death_  at all was because Yamcha and I hauled your ass inside and into the employee injury ward! You should be thanking me for having a 'power boost' at all," her fingers curled twice to that, "Because if I'd have left you out there, it would've been a grave! I thought we were past this whole arrogant tough guy act, Vegeta, what is it gonna take to prove to you that you're flesh and blood?!"

Vegeta's face darkened with impatience as, once again, it seemed to go right over her head, and pushing off of the counter with a snarl he growled back at her. "Never mind! Just stay out of my way!"

Whatever semblance of breakfast he had come to find was swiftly forgotten, it seemed, in lieu of the heiress' apparent stupidity. Bulma gawked after him, still blindsided by how impossible the man could be, and in a fit of pique turned to pick up a mug of half prepared coffee. She spun on her heel, yelling after him even as the sour Prince retreated through the archway and back into the shadows beyond the lounge, and gestured the mug roughly to spill some of it as she went.

"And to think I almost made you a coffee, you ungrateful son of a bitch! You never even passed me the milk! Rude!"

And with that, the blackened water of Vegeta's beverage would be unceremoniously tossed, with a hint of malice, to be splashed into the sink. Bulma stared at it as it ran mercilessly down the drain, circling in a slow death and never to touch the Saiyan's lips. Something vicious flashed in her eye and her hand shot for the tap, an abusive smack to the lever letting icy water burst forth to wash it all away.

If only it were so simple to be rid of the Saiyan himself, or at the very least, his near suicidal tendancies.

Setting the now empty mug aside with an agitated sigh, Bulma pressed hands to the edge of the sink in silent pathos for it all. Blue brows were furrowed as the chaos of yet another argument flew around in her head like an angry hive of bees. Vegeta... never had she encountered someone so difficult to even know, let alone share living space with. Not that they engaged in the usual routines acclimitised by housemates. She'd run him through most relationships she knew of, trying to find a category for him—siblings didn't quite fit, ex-lovers was closer to it though bereft of any intimate knowledge of one another. He was far too unruly to be a pet of any description, though at times she was reminded of her mother's managerie of stray animals that had been loved into submission.

If she thought of him like an injured stray she was trying to care for, that seemed fairly close to the mark, but there was no slow building of trust or companionship occuring; that much was clear.

With a final shake of her head, she let it go, turning back to her beloved strawberries to find salvation in the comfort of them. This day was going to be a long one, and no matter what happened concerning bandits and Saiyans, her gut was telling her that she was going to be seeing a lot more of her room—and far less of anybody else—for quite some time.

_I am going to need more Strawberries._


	2. You, Me, Us

The wind rushing by just outside of the windows made her feel alive, and privately, Bulma often imagined herself flying at such speeds without a cockpit around her.

She, as blue as the sky, part of it and allowed to dance upon the horizon with grace and fluidity, the sunlight caught in glorious camber through her hair as it flowed like water in the wind. Faster; higher to pierce a hole in every cloud, to sail across the light of day and in that instant to feel free and untouchable, powerful and at ease. How she envied the others, from time to time, in how such flight came so naturally to them and forever eluded her.

So many times she'd begged Yamcha to take her flying with him. Well... insisted. It was a rare indulgence, and one she adored more than the others likely knew. One would never guess, from the fuss she'd kicked up on her flights with Goku upon the Nimbus cloud. But then again, that was different. That was out of necessity and convenience, and clinging for dear life to an unwashed undershirt at a fraction of your usual size made looking down just a little bit more frightening than usual...

But no, Bulma didn't care about the wind blurring her vision, or the dreadful effect it held on her hairstyles; not truly. The sensation was enough—being lifted into the clouds and entrusting your life to another's capable hands, as they literally whisked you off your feet to show you the world. Strong hands that had held her many times, calloused and rough with a history of battle, and often carried the fate of the world within them. There was nothing quite so intimately romantic as that to her, and the sheer trust involved only served to heighten such skyward embraces into the realms of the breathless and heart throbbing.

It was something she was going to miss dearly, out of all the things she and Yamcha shared.

Leaning forward in her seat and caught up in the reverie, she was halted almost painfully by the belting as it began to dig into her frame. Escapism torn from her, the heiress would sigh, sending a pout towards the Gods and letting her hands ease off of the controls some. The heavy whine of the propulsion system reminded her, as ever, that she was at the mercy of technology like any usual human. Perhaps that was why she sought to master it so; a mechanical genius taking her own path to power and freedom, letting her inventions lift her to heights she wasn't supposed to reach.

 _Maybe that old Doctor Gero was onto something,_ she smirked to herself grimly, and leaned to flip down a gear as her vehicle slowed.

Cerulean eyes scanned the tilted horizon as she began to bank her small plane, and there, like a ruby floating lost upon the vast and shimmering seas, she spotted it.

Kame House.

A tiny giggle escaped her every time she approached it. Pink was a horrid colour to paint your home, but given the current location, it worked wonders for navigation—it was all too easy to spot from on high, sticking out like a beacon as it did. Given the aerial travel of most who frequented the place, it made quite a lot of sense, but even so the pink house with a red roof was as gaudy a thing as it was a happy sight.

Circling inward, her descent was easy. She'd made the landing more times than she could count now, and though it was commonplace, a self satisfied smile crossed gorgeous features as sparkling sand cushioned it further. Suspension released, a second or two of sinking, and then the technological exhale of relief and a job well done—oh, how she loved that sound. The high pitched whine of her engines wound down quickly, and with a few flicks of her wrist, the last few switches were disengaged to let a final wheeze of the exhaust bring it rest. It was a comforting routine, in its own way. Predictable, reliable, measurable and calming, and as she took hands to the belt buckle, unclipping it slowly, she allowed that faithful hum of machinery to steady her for what was to come.

The side of her glass bubble opened with its familiar hiss, and the heiress took her time as she stepped out onto the sun-warmed sands of this tiny island, breathing deeply of the sea air and allowing her hand to linger upon the metal framework. Instead of stepping away absent mindedly to head for the flimsy fly-screen door, however, she found her eyes fixed upon it from afar and hesitant, began to chew her lip in thought.

He was in there. She knew he was, she'd called ahead. Krillin answered, and for him to confirm Yamcha's whereabouts meant that he was definitely here—quite often when Krillin claimed Yamcha  _wasn't_  at Kame House, he was here. Other times, the ex-monk would secretly tell her anyway and then beg her not to let Yamcha know of the small betrayal, simply to spare himself a nasty flare of her temper.

 _I hope I don't still look tired..._  the thought shot through her mind like a flaming arrow, and self consciously, Bulma found herself turning to peer at her reflection within the glass. It was only faint and distorted by glare, but as she drew closer with a squint, the streak of colour transformed into a beautiful woman. Slender brows furrowed to the image she saw, and with a slight grimace of distaste, took gentle fingers to sweep the faint circles about her eyes. It wasn't half as bad as Vegeta's had been this morning, but now coming up on ten thirty, she groaned a little to see darkness looming beneath a dulled gaze. The side of her nose crinkled in disapproval as she studied her reflection carefully, lightly licking her fingertip to see if there was any chance she didn't blend the concealer well enough, but to little avail.

After a good minute of nitpicking, a tussle given to perkier locks and red headband straightened, she stepped back with a light huff, reviewing her outfit as hands settled on hips. Red halter top, silver bangles, silver hoop earrings, low riding bleached jeans with some wear and tear, topped with a gold coin belt and finished off with red flats. A tiny smile bubbled up as she picked a hair from her top, and nodded at herself.

"Well, Bulma, you know to throw a good outfit together. Casual, tidy, not too suggestive, and get some sun on your arms while you're out." She leant forward to the reflection with a secretive smirk, and cupping a hand over her mouth, whispered, "I'll buy you a mochaccino frappe on the way home..." and with a wink, straightened to steel herself with a steadying breath, and then turned to start toward the house, tracing the shadow of a towering palm tree.

But the closer each step took her—the more of the familiar voices she heard within—a knot began to tighten in her gut. A nervous frown swept her, and she swallowed.  _We're really going to need that frappe._

What little tufts of grass there were crunched lightly underfoot as she ran a hand along the pink panel-board, and casting a wary glance upward at the bold letters that marked this house, she felt each one like an eye to judge her, looking down in silence to condemn her intent. Such fond memories this place held, and she knew that a few of them would be crushed today and scattered to the sea breeze, purely because she had outgrown them. She barely registered setting foot upon the welcoming white step of the front door, and as cerulean eyes lowered to face it head on, something about the place seemed less inviting than before. How many times she had barged in without even a knock, never needing to announce herself, crossing this threshold with ease of mind and purpose?

It seemed so suddenly to be a strange place, foreign and leaving her unsure of her welcome, if only for what she'd come to do.

Cringing a little, she bit her tongue and ran a friendly greeting through her head in rehearsal, and with some courage, brought knuckles up to give a quick and impersonal rapping. She could only hope her voice didn't crack.

"Hey, in there! Anybody alive?" immediately, the heiress winced for the sound, thinking it shrill and intrusive. She hid the waver of nerves well enough though, and without awaiting response, forced a small smile, ready. Pulling the sheer door aside, she'd hover in the doorway to poke her head in, as was the usual habit when she came calling.

"Hey, it's Bulma!" came the familiar tone of Krillin from by the television, almost drowned out by the sound of aerobics girls as they unknowingly seduced an old pervert.

The wave of a glass pitcher drew her eye toward the old Master Roshi, and the old hermit gave a cheerful, though understandably distracted, croak. "Hey, what's shakin'?" The briefest flash of dark shades was sent her way, with a grin missing a tooth and half hidden by beard. "Long time, no see!"

She could almost feel the eyes behind those sunglasses roaming her chest, but just as Krillin turned a smile to her over the back of their couch, Bulma felt her visit become a little easier and relief quickly overcame any irritation for the lecherous master. Exhaling a breath she didn't know she'd held, she was quick to wave, wiggling her fingers and shifting weight to one leg. Maybe she was just being paranoid—she was overtired, that was all... But still, she knew it would be them who bore the brunt of Yamcha's mood, whatever it would be, when she left. She could avoid that awkward tension as the others asked questions and offered consolations and reasons to stick at it, but it was going to be a good amount of time before she could face her friends without feeling embarrassed or slightly guilty for it.

"Hey." she offered again, stepping inward with care not to trip over the old woven mat. That thing was the bane of high heels, and a lesson she'd learnt by heart. It almost hurt her cheeks, schooling her features into something so pleasant when there was nothing to drive it. Where normally her smile came easily, she could feel the muscles teetering on spasms now that she forced it and it made her wonder how false it looked. Her brows rose alongside a light-hearted shrug, and perhaps to prolong the inevitable, she forced some small talk.

"So, you got your glasses back in one piece, I see!" the hint of laughter followed it, but even as it slipped out, her eyes scanned the room for any sign of Yamcha, fingers twitching at her sides. Krillin was wearing his uniform, and catching a glimpse of the orange even from where he sat, she could easily guess they'd not long gotten up. That was good—Yamcha wouldn't be all riled up yet, then.

Shifting some to cross arms over the top of the purple couch and peer over at her, Krillin was quick to grimace, a light frown sweeping him as he sent a somewhat sarcastic look her way.

"Oh yeah, he missed them so much he spent the rest of the day having a reading marathon." he mused nasally, but was quick to lighten from it, gesturing a thumb upwards. "Yamcha's upstairs getting changed... And hey, don't take this the wrong way Bulma, but maybe it'd be better if you don't drag him off all the time, from now on. We need all the training we can get going up against these Androids..."

She must've blanched, because Krillin's slightly cautious mannerism suddenly turned into a bemused tilt of his head. The lowest of the pigmented dots on his forehead were stolen by a crease as his brows rose high, and though Bulma didn't realise how it looked, her arms flew to be defensively crossed under her bust. Old Roshi, at least, seemed taken enough with the television for the moment and for that Bulma was thankful. She really didn't need this to turn into a big deal. Not now... things were hard enough for everyone as it sat.

"Ooh, Krillin, look at 'em go! Heh heh!" though the old hermit brought the glass to hover in front of his white beard, his mirthful commentary kept it at bay as he tugged lightly at his tropical shirt. "Bend, Ladies! Heh he heh!"

His student was more interested in what was troubling his old friend however, and with brows suddenly furrowing in concern, he rose from his seat a little in query to set one foot on the floor. "Bulma, are you feeling okay? You're looking kinda pale... are you sick, or something?"

Her breath hitched in her throat, and her mouth moved to stutter a cheap excuse, but as she stood there Bulma felt the claws of nervousness digging into her heart. A pulse ran up her spine and all of a sudden, running back out to the plane and taking off without another word seemed like a very appealing idea. She swallowed dryly, shaky hands smoothing the red fabric of her top, and just before her voice came cracked, Roshi called out again to distract.

"Krillin! Sit down, your head is catching the sun!" he waved a wiry arm at him then, motioning for the ex-monk to comply, and gestured his glass at the screen. "You're casting glare all over my girls!"

Blue curls and bald head alike whipped toward the sound, and privately, Bulma caught the flash within those sunglasses. She knew in that instant the old man's gaze was upon her, though not for perverted reasons. The Heiress blinked a few times, almost in shock, as she realised what he was doing—he was giving her the opportunity she needed to get upstairs, without Krillin making things more difficult than necessary. The old Turtle Hermit, it seemed, had already seen straight through her the second she'd stepped foot through the door. Bulma wondered how he could've known; he had barely looked at her, and everyone knew how single-mindedly he focussed upon the fitness channel... or at least, as now was apparent, how much he  _seemed_  to be focussed on it. Silently, Bulma found an odd new respect for the old man, and made a mental note of letting a few future ogglings slide.

The corners of her lips flirted upwards in a thankful smile, and with a light nod, she moved quickly toward the stairs. "Won't be long!" she called back with a falsely chipper tone, and Krillin was left to watch in slight confusion as he turned to see Bulma bounding up the steps.

He frowned a little for it, and feeling he'd missed something as he settled back down onto the couch, lifted a brow toward his Master. "Hey, did she seem...  _off_  to you?"

But Roshi was already fixated upon the television by the time his question came, humming to himself in order to brush it off. A swig of beer taken, and the crafty old hermit tilted his sunglasses with another cackle, content that his work was done. "Heh he heh! One and two, and kick, and two! Lift those leg-warmers, baby!"

Atop the stairs now, clearing the last step and not stopping until outstretched palms found the opposite wall, Bulma leaned there mortified. Pressing her front to the plaster, she let her cheek rest against it, and cerulean eyes shut tightly—it was cool where her skin touched it, and she realised how flustered she must've been. A blush burned upon her nose and she could tell it wasn't getting any lighter for her trouble. She cringed to herself, and gorgeous features twisted into a pained frown as her fingers curled weakly.

This was harder than she'd expected. Gods above, it was tearing her apart, and it hadn't even begun—talking herself through it all in the lonely morning hours, running the logic through her mind as the sun rose into the sky, thinking of what to say to him... it all seemed so straightforward, then. The little details would be her undoing—if just stepping through the door and facing the others had done so much to unnerve her already, Yamcha's face would see her come apart. Bulma could already see the light in his eyes dimming, his grin faltering upon hearing her tone, the crinkle of his brow as he noted her tired eyes.

But then, she knew within herself that she still cared deeply for him... this was the first time she was ever going to break up with him without anger to fuel it and numb her thereafter. This was like going through heart surgery without anaesthesia; life changing and agonising.

A shaky sigh left her, and in sheer desperation, Bulma forced her mind backwards. All the women he'd flirted with over the years, all the times he had been late, how long she'd spent waiting on him, how many times he had blown her off. How immature he could be; a boy when she needed a man. How everything was a joke. How when he made mistakes, he covered them in anger and humiliation to point the blame elsewhere. How when she did the same, he would point them out all too quickly, laying them back at her feet without the luxury of patience or support.

 _...How I just can't trust him when I'm not there;_ her eyes opened slowly to stare at her fingernails as they dug into the wall, renewed in their determination.  _He's great when I'm with him and it's all laughs, but I don't even know who he is while I'm not around. Not anymore..._

"This is why we're here... This is for the best..." she breathed to herself quietly, reassuringly, and cautiously Bulma would push away from the wall with a roll of bare shoulders, as if gearing up to fight him rather than break things off. "...Mochaccino frappe..."

She turned, and swift steps took her down the hall as a bangled hand rose to run fingers through curled blue locks.  _Like a bandaid, Bulma, quicker the better._  She didn't even stop to knock when she came upon his door, knowing very well which room he used when he stayed here—which room  _they_  had used, more times than she could count. It opened smoothly as she pushed her way in, and the Heiress turned immediately to close it, avoiding the glimpse of him for as long as was possible. Something of her resolve shattered then, as she pressed a hand to the door securely, when his surprised voice rang out behind her.

"...Bulma? What're you doing here?"

It was so innocent to her ear; so awkward and unsure, and yet light and happy to see her. Damn him. It was worming its way down her spine and settling in her stomach with warmth. She had to stop it before it disarmed her. She would not let him talk her around, not this time. It had to be done, and biting the bullet, Bulma grit her teeth and refused to look back at him. All mental rehearsal of easing into things calmly went out the window in lieu of self preservation, and though it pained her to do it, she gave her answer evenly.

"Yamcha, I'm here to talk to you about something very important, and I need you to hear me out and support my decision, okay?" It was slightly more defensive than she'd liked, but at least there was no mincing of words.

"W—What?" she flinched to the sound of it, and she swore she heard it echo. "Bulma, what are you talking about? What decision?" she heard him shift behind her, and suddenly his tone was nervous. "O-oh man, this isn't about... that new gym I joined, is it? Because I told you, I didn't  _know_  there was a dance class next door!"

Turning slowly with a sigh, Bulma finally allowed herself to glance back at him, though as cerulean eyes fell upon her soon to be ex-boyfriend, she regretted it immediately. Sitting on the edge of his bed upon tussled sheets, the bandit was half-way through getting changed into his own orange uniform; baggy pants hosted his blue undershirt scrunched in his lap, and the sculpted muscle of his chest winked back at her in the morning sun from the window. Strong hands toyed idly with the fabric, and she cursed herself for not heeding Krillin—she should've just waited for him outside or something. At least then he'd be  _dressed_.

Biting her bottom lip once again, she struggled with herself, tugging nervously at keepers of her jeans and tracing her belt buckle with a finger. Despite what she'd come to do, Bulma was painfully aware—as that delicious athletic frame lay so temptingly gropable before her—that it had been a while since they had made love. A long while. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to give it another week... you know, that was probably it, she was just missing the intimacy. Break-up sex was meant to be some of the best, right? Just this once, just one last time...

No, that would just make it even harder...

 _Harder..._ Her eyes flicked downward, and her breathing became shallow as the word boomed in her head. She could feel a bead of sweat running down the back of her neck, but for the life of her, she could only imagine it to be his finger sweeping softly against her skin... imagining it tracing the arch of her back, trailing a line of fire down her spine... deftly undoing her bra, with such ease, and... and...

"...Bulma?"

Something snapped in her, tearing a gasp from her lips, and horror swam through wide eyes as a fierce panic gripped her. "I can't do this...!" she squeaked, as a frantic hand shot for the door handle, jiggling it until the damn thing opened.

"Bulma! Do what? ...Bulma!"

She heard the bed shift behind her, knowing that he had stood, and the door swung wide without care as she threw it aside to flee. Bulma winced as it hit the wall, no doubt leaving a mark where the handle met plaster, and tore down the stairs with all haste as the first tears glossed her vision—footsteps chased her down, quick on her heels, and she was distantly aware of a stabbing pain as Yamcha called after her to stop.

Her body moved of its own accord, feet hitting the ground swiftly as a sob hitched in her throat. Krillin stood as she ran past, the blurred look of concern and surprise he wore only pushing her faster as Roshi's arm shot out to grab his pant leg, shaking his head in silence. She tripped over the mat, palms coming up to brace her as the screen door slammed open with a jarring impact, and the soft sand stole her footing completely as she stumbled blindly outward.

Legs buckled under her and Bulma fell to kneel in front of the pink house she knew so well, ragged breath greedily took up the fresh air, sucking it through her fingers as her hand hovered over her mouth. Her stomach lurched within her, and she swore she could've gagged, locks of blue whipping to the shake of her head. She heard his feet heavy through the lounge room, bare as one hit the white step and his hand shot out to abuse the screen door again, and sand kicked up behind her. Warmth enveloped her shoulders, a firm and gentle grip design to restrain and soothe; capture her and put her back into a spell of submission as he knelt beside her.

"Bulma, what the hell has gotten into you?" brows knitted together with disapproval and worry, his eyes tracing her features as if looking for disease, or something that could ease the symptom.

Glassed cerulean rose to meet them, weary, and the Heiress' hand fell away as she stared, bereft of expression. Her gaze traced the scars upon his visage, and her fingers rose to follow them absently, distant and somehow removed in her study. She could see the confusion about him. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and it was easy to read those boyish features, even when the lines of his face hardened into some semblance of maturity.

A sombre silence settled between them then, and with a sigh, she let her head loll to one side as long lashes closed. It was now or never—she was cornered, and broken, and there was no avoiding it now.

"Yamcha..." she whispered hoarsely, clearing her throat to correct it when she continued. "...I'm... breaking up with you."

She didn't open her eyes to see his reaction. She didn't want to see it.

 _I should've just done this over the phone;_ she thought quickly, but Bulma knew better. He would've just come around anyway, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong and to convince her otherwise.

The bandit stared at her, lost for words as hers lingered in the salty air between them. His gaze wavered over her face and he noted the tired look she wore, each moment passing to draw his head further away as if she was out of focus. She may as well have been a blur of colour, because this just wasn't like his Bulma—no lead up argument? No twenty missed calls and angry messages? No accusations? This was unreal, and more than that it was unexpected, and his mind simply couldn't process it that quickly. For a moment he considered the possibility that he'd slept in, and was having some weird nightmare...

On some level, it terrified him, because somewhere in the back of his mind, a realisation bloomed—he had known this was coming. He hadn't known when, or why, but somehow, it was there.

Their relationship had finally hit its wall.

His body jerked away from her then, his hands torn away as if her flesh would burn his own, and with haste he stood over her to wear a mixture of pain and anger. Scarred jaw clenched as words danced across his tongue, steadily exhaling through his nose like the snort of a bull about to charge, and idle hands flexed in and out of fists at his sides.

He did not care for the wall, he decided. No, if she truly loved him, they would find a way to climb it.

"Why are you doing this, Bulma?" it came quietly enough, though it was far from calm, peppered with denial and determination as he frowned down at her. It was rhetorical, and she knew that when he shook his head, casting a glare to the horizon as his mouth drew thin. "...This is about what Goku said, isn't it? How we should settle down... start a family..."

Kneeling still, she shook her head, perky wisps of blue swaying to the motion as Bulma stared at the sand below. "It's not just that, Yamcha... I've been thinking about a lot of things. I just... I can't keep pretending this is something that it's not, you know?" she sniffled some, settling now that it finally came out, and rubbed at her nose gingerly. "You know just as much as I do that we've got our fair share of things to work through. These next three years are gonna be hard on everyone, and trying to figure out what we're supposed to be doing isn't going to help."

He bit his tongue, muscles flexing as his hands rose to the back of his neck, thick fingers curling into the long mane of black to tug. It was all he could do to keep focus on what she was saying, bending his knees briefly before hastily turning to take a step away, many things running wild through his head. Impatient, he spun on his heel just as quickly, gesturing roughly to her with a frustrated look.

"Then we can wait three years, and sort it out then! Damn it, Bulma...!" his hand retracted and his head jerked away again, as if restraining the urge to punch something. She just didn't get it, sometimes. He seethed an irritated sigh and winced, cursing himself for how he was handling this, but it wasn't as if she was making things any easier. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeezed shut, and biting back on knee-jerk responses, strained himself to give a softer tone.

"Bulma, we've been on and off for years. I know we've got our problems, but who hasn't?" His hand fell away limply, and tilting his head back, he cast a pensive gaze to the skies above. "We fight, we've had our breakups... Hell, Bulma, we got through my  _death_. That's not exactly something most people have to deal with, but we did it. You're the one that held the press release that saved my career! If you hadn't have played it off like bad injuries instead, I could never have had my comeback with the Titans... How the hell do you explain coming back from the dead to baseball fans? It was on the news, there was a stadium vigil!"

He threw his hands up weakly in a surrender, letting them fall to lightly hit his thighs, and turning back to her he gave a helpless look. "Bulma, you lied to thousands of people on national television, doing the impossible, just so I'd have something normal to come back to... Ask anybody you want to, but that's love right there. Since you guys wished me back, I've been thinking about a lot of things too, and sure, with these Androids and everything, waiting until afterwards is probably a good idea... But what Goku said really hit me that day, and I realised..."

Black hair swayed behind his he shook his head, glancing upwards as if to read the words off a cloud. "He's right." a saddened grimace swept him as his eyes fell to the sand between them. "I've been wasting a great thing, and... and it's time I started stepping up, you know? I... want to change for you. Give you what you deserve... and that's a ring, Bulma, I mean it." he sought her gaze, holding it, and his his eyes was something sorry. "I'm ready."

Tired eyes stared up at him listlessly, and beneath pale skin, Bulma felt her heart breaking. How long had she waited to hear those words from him? ...There were nights when, alone in her bed and hours spent waiting for his promised call, she'd cried herself to sleep wondering what blonde had caught his eye. Somewhere in her, a voice cried out, too little too late; that those nights would still occur, waiting for him to come home as post-victory drinks drew out far longer than they should, and that a ring on her finger would only double the pain. Years could go by before it happened again... but settled deep into the pit of her stomach, like acid burning a hole in her, the doubt would always be there. The fact remained. It  _would_  happen again.

If  _she_  let it.

Fresh tears prickled her vision for that, floating upon her lashes like little crystals, and without a word her gaze fell from his. A tiny and cynical smile flashed across her quivering lip, and her head hung low. Her voice was nowhere to be found within an aching throat, though a thousand things bubbled up at once to drag out something foreign; a rasped and broken tone she didn't believe was hers.

"Yamcha... three years waiting is a long time." her fingers curled into the sand, taking some into her palm and tilting it to let them slide free again, counting the grains like coming days. "How do you know you won't change your mind? What if most of us really do die? ...There are so many things that are going to change, all at once, and I just don't know if I can handle all of that and this, too. I'm not even sure I believe in marriage anymore... I mean look at every guy who put it off for years, and then turn around and get married to some twenty year old bimbo after a few months..." she trailed off into a sigh, giving an exhausted grimace, and let her head tilt back to look up at him, unsure of what she'd find. "Not... that I mean it like the way that sounds... but..."

The lines of his face set into a finite expression, the sea breeze catching their hair in a gentle caress as the waves lapped lightly upon the shore. Just as she'd imagined, his eyes lost their shine, growing dull and defeated as he shut down to hide the hurt. He wore a haunted sort of expression, deadpan yet painted with the ghost of distant sadness, and a weak shrug came of him.

"Bulma." he offered flatly, letting a slow blink pass over him. "We've been together since we were young. You  _know_  me. You either want to marry me or you don't."

The Heiress let her attention fall away to study the grooves she'd left in the sand, and she knew this was it—his heart was in her hand, as fragile as glass, and now was the time to see it shatter. She lingered on it still, going back over everything that had happened. He'd resent her for this, she knew, but it was better than a lifetime of it growing like mould between the cracks of a broken marriage until they died bitter and unfulfilled. She knew it, and in time, he would come to realise it too.

Slowly she came to stand, dusting the sand from her jeans as she did so, and gave him a saddened smile as she stepped forward to close the distance. Her hand rose to the cross-shaped scar on his cheek, running her thumb over it gently, and prayed silently that one day soon, he'd forgive her.

"I'm sorry, Yamcha..." it was no more than a whisper between them, as she leant forward to place a chaste kiss—the very last one—to his lips. "But, I don't... and neither do you."

He stood frozen there with an empty glaze to his eyes as she slipped past him with slow steps, letting her hand fondly sweep his jaw until her touch left him entirely. She felt his gaze follow her as she padded softly back toward her plane. She heard his bare feet shuffle back through the sand, and she very nearly felt the harsh slam of that poor screen door.

Though the bandit would watch her climb back into the vehicle from afar, silently pleading that she would not leave him like this as the whirling hum of the engines grew louder, he knew that she would not change her mind.

And as Bulma sped off alone into the open skies once more, caught in some fantasy of blissful flight, instead of envious within her machine, she felt free.


	3. Second Opinions are not Cures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I was sorely tempted to call Bulma's mother 'Bunny' for old times sake, but given Toriyama's comment of naming her Panchi or something similar to follow the underwear pun, I've opted to go for 'Pansy' instead.)

It was really hard to see the silver lining from the living room floor.

Three days had passed now since her—what she had been telling herself was inevitable—breakup with Yamcha. Right from the morning she decided to call it quits, Bulma had found herself on a fast tracked road trip of tears to misery, but not without pit stops in self loathing, anger, and of course the popular tourist trap of loneliness which was famed for its comfort foods.

The mochaccino frappe had proved to be the unfortunate start to a series of gluttonous events that, to the best of Bulma's ability, had been justified as 'spoiling herself with a little something' and 'was not going to become a habit'. Eighteen punnets of strawberries had been sacrificed to the god of temporary consolations; one tub of chocolate ice cream, three bagels, a muffin, one half finished packet of donuts, and at present, a silver sachet of frosting pilfered from a box of cake mix. She didn't have the heart or energy to actually make the cake herself, and with her mother out, the heiress had now settled into the lowest point of snacking possible.

Sprawled on the plush cream carpet, hidden from the light of day with curtains drawn, Bulma lay bathed in the light glow of the television to cuddle a pillow beneath her chin and let her elbows be propped lazily upon the floor. The perky afro style had been left to dwindle back into languid curls, neglected, as was her sense of fashion—in her world, black tank tops only fit to sleep in and hideously gray and baggy track pants were all the rage. Her finger dived into the sachet again, collecting a dollop of sweet white satisfaction, and absently bringing it to her lips she would suck the digit clean. Wiping the finger some on the pillow case, cerulean eyes followed the people on-screen with bored fixation, numb as she took in everything that self-proclaimed experts had to tell her.

The gorgeous results of plastic surgery and giant egos flickered across the giant screen like gods upon a pedestal, passing judgement on the pitiable mortals who watched them as a paid studio audience worshipped with applause and well timed laughter. Red couches, a book sitting upright on a tiny table and two pompous hosts discussing a world they obviously didn't take personal part in.

Bulma glanced to the fake-tanned visage of one as she spoke, swirling frosting about her tongue with disinterest as she did so.

"I still don't understand why so many people want to rush into marriage, Tollin." the busty host crossed a long leg over her knee, and the heiress thought it a miracle the woman didn't flash a glimpse of what was under the shortest cocktail dress ever designed.

"They don't, Belle." came the well rehearsed answer of a clearly gay man, folded hands on his thigh as he perfectly mirrored the position of the woman sitting adjacent.

Bulma gave a light snort, rolling her eyes and shoving her finger back into the sachet— _I'm guessing the book is his_.

"No man really wants to get married before their mid-thirties, and if he does, it's a lie or a poorly timed impulse." he explained confidently, as if this was breaking news to the world. "If they do get married, give it a year and I guarantee all they're going to be thinking about is how many freedoms they've given up, and all the women they miss out on. All these opportunities will seem to pop up in their lives; beautiful girls making flirtatious small talk at the store. Serendipity strikes again and as you jog through the park, there's a brunette making eyes at you. She throws a frisbee to her dog, you run across its path, and all of a sudden you're scratching this retriever's belly. Badda bing, badda boom, the perfect meeting for a whirlwind romance... or it would be, until that ring on your finger catches your eye as the sun hits it."

With a bitter grimace, the heiress would wave a frosting covered finger at the screen, wobbling her head in a haughty fashion as blue curls swayed behind. A snide impression of the man hissed out, venomous yet droll. "And that, Belle, is why guys have back pockets. Slip the ring in,  _Badda bing badda boom_ , and here's a pro tip—it makes for a great excuse not to call back when she picks your jeans up off the floor and finds it!"

But the tittering laughter of the host rang out all the same. "Oh come on, Tollin, you're making it sound like a wedding band is a magnet for infidelity here!"

"Not that he'd know..." Bulma mused cynically, licking her finger as a superior gaze was focussed upon the silvery packet. "Gay marriage is still illegal outside Central City."

"No, no... I'm not saying that at all." The author waved his hand dismissively, and the flick of his wrist only confirmed Bulma's suspicions of homosexuality further. "Those are just a few examples and even if the guy stays faithful, the point is still there—they notice these little things, all of a sudden. Not to say that they appear only to married guys, no way, the truth is that they were happening all along... But it's all about the driving force behind it. Its the 'what about me' factor at play."

A rolling sigh escaped her, and almost dreading what was to come, the heiress let herself collapse limply into the soft comfort of the pillow as she muttered, voice muffled. "Oh, here we go..."

"Those opportunities were always there, they just never took much notice of them until they couldn't yield a reward. They can have such a great thing going with their spouse, but you see, it's like a child and that cookie jar they can't touch—when they aren't allowed to have it, they only want it more."

The bimbo gave that shallow laugh again, pulling a face that might've implied slight shock if not for the ridiculous amounts of botox that stifled it. "All the poor married guys in our audience are going to get an earful when they get home, thanks to you!"

"Well, it's not just the married ones! The fact that these guys rushed into marriage in the first place only proves that further."

Bulma gasped sarcastically, face still buried in the pillow. "Shock and horror." Somehow, she just couldn't find the enthusiasm to watch anymore, resigning herself to audio only and enjoying the darkness that had stolen her vision.

"How so?" the clueless bitch replied on cue.

"In the heat of the moment, a guy's mind works toward the greatest benefit. It sorts out a path to the maximum reward, and without weighing the cons against the pros, the guy goes in full steam ahead to get to the gold. Ladies, before he wanted to marry you,  _you_  were that beautiful opportunity that piqued his interest!"

She almost yelled, anger still muffled by the soft folds as the sachet was hatefully crumpled by a fist. "I was his  _only_  'opportunity'! He couldn't even  _talk_  to pretty girls before me!"

_Yeah, that didn't last long, did it, Bulma?_

"You were that girl in the park or at the store, and out of the many little meetings and sly winking glances, you were the one he favoured most and chose to chase... but like him, you had your opportunities too! The minute something else takes your eye, expect the proposal as soon as he catches wind of it, because that's his way of bumping up the stakes."

From her well of apathy, Bulma's ears perked up. Blue curls suddenly whipped as her head snapped upwards, cerulean eyes staring wide at the screen as a strange epiphany hit home, and in amongst all the bullshit of prime-time talk shows, she found a nugget of intrigue. It was like a bolt of lightning had hit her, paralysing her there for a moment, before in a maddened and desperate flurry of movement the heiress found herself scurrying closer.

With a knowing chuckle, the man continued. "He's top dog again, and while you're drooling over that diamond ring, Kapow! He has you in the palm of his hand, and the rewards are great... He's in paradise, and you're serving the drinks."

Tossing the pillow and her frosting aside, she crawled up toward the television, kneeling upwards and placing palms to the screen, frantic. "No, no, no! Go back! What did you just say? Go back!" Light smacks were given urgingly to the screen, as if trying to draw attention to herself.

To her chagrin, the bimbo host just plowed onward, completely ignoring her pleas. "Well, that doesn't sound all that bad! I mean, sure, no girl wants to be waiting on a guy hand and foot, but that's why marriage is forever. Things settle themselves down, don't they?"

"Of course they do, Belle. And there's the rub—the catch is that  _he_  never thought about the fact that it does last  _forever_. Even in paradise, there's only so much you can do before its just the same old thing, and then not only are you bored..."

The man's gaze turned toward the screen, and Bulma cocked her head back to the unexpected eye contact. It was as if he knew she was there, and for it, he gave a terrible grin.

"...You're trapped, and no prisoner spends their days thinking about how wonderful their cage is, do they? Here's my advice to you Ladies watching... find yourself a guy who knows what it feels like to be boxed in. If he ever asks you to marry him? It's real. There's no way in hell he's going back into a cage, so you can rest easy knowing you're not a conquest, but a person they love. Don't let men turn you into their prison, because all they'll do is try to break the bars."

And then the face was gone, camera panning back to the bimbo as she gestured to the book. "Okay! You can find more of Doctor Tollin's advice in his new book,  _Only Fools Rush In_ , which launches today! For your own copy, you can find it at our website on sale this week for..."

As Bulma fell back to sit, zoning out now as the screen proudly showed the front cover, her mind was racing around trying to make sense of the lightbulb that had appeared. Slender brows furrowed as something the author had said echoed through her head, almost impossible to ignore, and she let her gaze wander aimlessly over the carpet.

_The minute something else takes your eye, expect the proposal as soon as he catches wind of it, because that's his way of bumping up the stakes._

Frowning to herself now, the heiress shook her head, taken aback at the strange and creeping sense of deja vu. "Well, sure, there's the Androids, but he said he would wait to sort things out afterwards, even before the marriage thing came up... So that makes no sense, I don't even have anything else holding my attention. Nothing that would make me break it off, anyway..."

Pondering on it, she sent a pensive glance toward the abandoned silver sachet, suddenly not seeing the appeal of its contents. But a strange haze of doubtfulness clouded her then, and with a quizzical squint, she would question it.

"...Do I?"

Distantly, she heard a door shut, and the rustle of plastic and hard paper alongside a jingle of keys. Turning her attention toward it, Bulma would lift herself up lazily, stretching with an arch of her back and wandering slowly toward the kitchen as her mother appeared from the next room. The blonde was heavily laden with bags—moreso than her slight frame would suggest she had the strength to carry—and as Bulma had expected, made a beeline for the kitchen table to place her burden down, offering a chipper greeting as she passed through the archway.

"Morning, Bulma! I got you some more strawberries, but I forgot what brand of cigarettes you like so I just went with what your father gets, okay?" with a heave then, the kitchen table was unceremoniously covered with bagged goods, and poking through a couple of the plastic ones her mother would pilfer out the packet and place it aside with a pat. Pansy breathed a slight sigh of relief, lightly tossing her keys toward a glass bowl and taking to adjusting her bustline, pulling the youthful tube top upwards. "Warm out there today! ...and why is it so dark in here?"

Offering sly perusal of the bags to see what else her mother had bought, the heiress brought a thumb to her lip and began to chew the nail, musing distractedly. "Hey, Mom. I drew all the curtains because... I had a headache." A tiny white lie.

"Hey is for horses, Bulma." Before sorting any of her shopping, she would pause with comforting and motherly concern, soft voiced and considerate as she planted hands upon the table. "How're you doing today, Sweetie? You feeling any better?" The white lie was transparent.

Shifting languidly around the table to reach for her cigarettes, knowing full well her mother could see her depression, Bulma gave a half hearted shrug and pursed her lips.

"More or less, Mom... I mean, I've been worse. I guess I'm just taking a few days to let it all sink in and process that I made the right decision..." she sighed a little, brows furrowed as she took to picking the plastic film and unwrapping it. "I still care about him and I hate having to do this to him, you know? It hurts... But, gotta be cruel to be kind sometimes, right?" she flashed a nervous grin, though it faded quickly.

"I know, Sweetie, I do... But it's still a shame. He really is a such a nice boy, I hope you'll still be good friends..." offering a slight pout at that, the blonde would set about sorting through her shopping, rustling through plastic methodically. "But you'll be okay. My gorgeous baby girl will find her Mister Right in no time, you'll see." a sneaky, almost knowing smile curved Pansy's lips, and she gave a stifled giggle.

As Bulma pulled a cigarette free, raising it slowly, she gave a thoughtful hum to that and eyed her mother warily. "...Mom? Can I ask you a question?"

"Only if you don't light that smoke inside." came the reply, her nagging thinly disguised by the mirthful tone used as she pulled a box of detergent free of the bag.

Rolling her eyes, the cigarette would be tapped idly to the top of the packet, and passing over it the heiress continued. "I was watching that Chime with Belle show earlier, and—"

"Oh, I love that show!" the blonde chirped suddenly, distracted by it. "She always looks so lovely, you'd suit short hair like that too, Bulma!"

"Mom!" Bulma frowned with a huff, jerking her leg in light mimicry of an impatient stomp.

Pansy gave an absent-minded hum, brows rising as to what was wrong, and realised her interruption—her daughter had often complained of the habit she had of going off on tangents. Bashfully, she smiled and took to patting her hair, making sure the clips were still in place. "Sorry, Sweetie. What were you saying?"

Bulma peered at her incredulously for a moment, as if to be sure she was paying attention, and when no further interruption seemed apparent, she gave a silent sigh. "I was  _going_  to ask you if you'd noticed anything I've been doing lately that Yamcha might... I don't know..." her lips drew thin and cerulean eyes glanced upward in search of the right way to say it, a roll of her shoulders given as she went out on a limb. "...Feel threatened by, or something?"

Pansy began collecting a few things in her arms as she thought about this, tilting her head to one side as blonde brows furrowed, pensive. "I'm not really sure, Bulma... Everybody's been so busy lately, since that future boy appeared." she mused unhelpfully, turning with a click of high heels to walk toward the fridge.

Glancing back over her shoulder as she opened the glass-front door, the blonde would perk up suddenly. "You know, your father used to get into a funny mood when we had that young gardener around to help me, back when we expanded the atrium. Maybe it's like that—you have been helping your father out quite a bit lately, what with that new vehicle line and fixing up all Vegeta's toys... Oh! Silly me, I forgot the butter!"

The surge of deja vu suddenly found purchase, and with cerulean eyes snapping toward the kitchen window, Bulma found herself gaping a little at what came together in her mind.  _Vegeta_. "You don't think... he was actually getting jealous of Vegeta, or anything?" she almost stuttered it for how ridiculous it was, blinking rapidly. "The guy is a nutjob, Mom! Why would Yamcha think  _Vegeta_ , of all people, would be more important to me than he is? I mean yeah, he's pretty high maintenance and all, but come on! We're only putting up with him because he's gonna help fight the Androids!"

"Well, Sweetie, you did tell him about that dream you had." the blonde offered tactlessly, returning to the table to collect more perishables. She'd give a nod toward the window, implying the gravity capsule beyond. "I don't blame you for wanting to kiss a handsome Prince, Bulma, especially that stud of a man outside..." she paused enough to suck a wanting breath through her teeth, "...but I don't think Yamcha would appreciate that thought as much as I do."

Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her as she was reminded of it, and caught between that and the awkward—and openly voiced—attraction her mother had for the Saiyan, snapped defensively with a look of abject horror.

"That was  _just_ some stupid  _dream_ , Mom! It didn't mean I  _want_  to kiss him! He was totally different in my head!" the heiress busied herself with new fretting, smacking a palm to her forehead in a fit of pique as she began to pace. "That idiot! What if he thinks I broke up with him because of Vegeta? What if he thinks I broke up with him  _for_  Vegeta?! Oh, no...!" she sulked helplessly, her knees bending as if she strained to carry something heavy—well, it was a heavy burden to think about—and feeling a little dizzy for the trouble, turned to lean her weight upon the countertop; cigarettes discarded carelessly.

Blue curls fell about her face limply as Bulma hung her head in shame and despair, hands climbing to cover her face. Things were just going from bad to worse, and as if breaking it off wasn't hard enough already, the thought that Yamcha may not even understand the true reasons behind it made her insides twist violently. She shook her head in denial, groaning with despair behind her hands, mortified by the possibilities that could be running through the bandit's head. She hadn't even realised that was what it may look like—True, she and Yamcha's relationship had run its course, but if and when she found the one for her, there was no way in Hell it was going to be Vegeta!

She had to let him know that wasn't the case. She simply had to; one of the reasons she'd broken it off so suddenly with him was because he didn't need any distractions to hold him back. Who knew what kind of mental plagues could be unleashed by the thought that your long time girlfriend, that you still cared for, had left you for a mass murderer when you may only have three more years to live? Especially when that murderer had killed _you_  in the past, along with some of your friends? That could be a person's undoing, left to fester and eat away at their sanity!

Through the chaos of her internal panic, her mother's still chirpy tone rang out as clear as day to calm it, stilling the rippling waters of her mind.

"Oh, Bulma, you and Yamcha have been on and off for nearly fifteen years now, Sweetie. Anybody coming out of a long term relationship like that isn't going to be running off with somebody new straight away, and I'm sure he knows that." gathering up a few empty bags, the blonde would wrap them up around her arm, folding them over to be saved and reused later. She shot her daughter a soft smile. "You both just need a little time to cool down. Give him a call at the end of the week when you've both had time to think it all through, and make sure you're both okay. You're going through an emotional time, Sweetie, just give it a chance to settle and you'll see it will all turn out fine."

Dread filled cerulean eyes peered helplessly through the cracks of her fingertips, and though her worry was still very present, Bulma did feel it lessen some at her mother's soothing. "I hope you're right, Mom..." she mused weakly, somewhat muffled by her hands as with a tired sigh, they slid down her cheeks to cup her chin. "You're making strawberry pancakes tonight, right? Do you think you could bring some up to my room?"

"Sure, Sweetie." her mother purred sweetly as clicking heels carried her toward the pantry, opening the slim door and putting the plastic bags away. "I'm going to start dinner in a minute, too, so go and tell Vegeta his will be ready in about an hour. Those Saiyan boys have such an appetite, don't they?" she giggled airily, obviously not minding the fact that she would be cooking for the equivalent of twelve people. "Do you want any egg rolls with yours, or should I just do some up for him?"

Bulma stared at her as if she'd grown another head, her hands falling limp with shock. She could swear that some things just went straight over her mother's head. "Mom! Were you not paying attention or something? Vegeta will be lucky if I ever talk to him again, after all this!" she frowned darkly, crossing arms beneath her bust in a stubborn manner as she cocked her head back to scoff. "You know, he actually had the nerve the other day to tell me that my  _saving his life_  was not only unappreciated, but that from now on he wanted to—and I quote—'wake up in a pool of blood and rubble'? He's a total headcase, Mom!"

With a hand on her hip and a finger hovering over a selection of herbs, as yet undecided on which would be best used, Pansy cooed back with biased affection. "Oh, Bulma, he's probably just embarrassed about the whole thing. You know how proud he is... Maybe he just doesn't want you to worry about him; you did spend the entire night at his bedside, Sweetie."

A small pang of regret trailed her spine for that, and softening a little, Bulma gave a sigh of defeat as her head lolled backward to peer at the ceiling. "It's not that, Mom. He blames me for it, I know he does..." her mind travelled back to the argument they'd had that morning, and his words echoed strongly, even with all that had happened in between. "He told me I had a guilt complex that was making me get in his way, and now that I think about it—not that I'd ever tell him this—but he's right... I think  _I_  kinda blame myself, too. I felt like if he died that day, it would be my fault... I even worried about how much fuel he had in space because, in a weird way, I guess I felt like he trusted me with his safety while using our technology. He's made no secret of seeing better ships, you know?"

A sorry grimace passed over her gorgeous features, and listlessly, she rolled her shoulders. "Krillin's told me enough about what Vegeta's been through to know that trust, no matter how small, is a really big thing for him. When he had the accident, that trust was broken, and I don't know why, but I sorta feel like I betrayed him... I know it wasn't my fault or anything, but still..." dejectedly, her gaze fell to the floor, tracing the cracks in the tiles.

Plucking vials of coriander and thyme down, her mother would send a comforting look back over her shoulder, smiling with softness—her daughter had such a kind heart, even if she tried to hide it with her temper, and it was one of the things Pansy adored about her Bulma. "Well, maybe you should have a talk with him, too. He really is a lovely boy, Sweetie, a little rough around the edges but lovely all the same..." she turned back to click back toward the fridge, tilting her head with a light shake, as her admiration continued. "And he tries so hard, Bulma, he's always exhausted when he comes in. You have to give him a little bit of patience; he's bound to have his grumpy moments being so tired and sore."

The heiress gave a harassed groan, slumping forward from the counter to stand and toying with the drawstring of her track pants. "But, Mom, I  _have_  been patient with him... It's not just moments, he's like that all the time! How am I supposed to talk to him at all when he wants me to stay away from him?" She lazily snatched the cigarettes from the counter, taking reluctantly slow steps across the kitchen. "I mean, it's not like I want to be his best friend or anything, but don't exactly want to find him dead on the lawn, either... I just wish he'd take better care of himself, you know?"

"Go on, Sweetie. Tell him to have shower and then his dinner will be ready." Pansy took to a cheery hum then, carrying a plethora of foodstuffs to the counter as the fridge door swung closed. "I'll bring yours up to your room when its done, okay?"

"I'm going, Mom..." she relented tiredly, dragging her feet as she crossed onto the carpet and made for the foyer. Idly, and perhaps as a release of frustration, Bulma would bat a leaf of the potted caladium as she passed through, calling back over her shoulder. "No promises on the shower, though."

For the life of her, she would never understand how Saiyans could completely ignore their own body odour after a fierce training session—she'd seen Vegeta sit down to eat still covered in streaks of dried blood, hair matted with sweat, utterly oblivious as to the effect he held on the others' appetites.

_Not that watching him stuff himself like a pig is much better,_ the conceded privately, opening the back door to step outside,  _Not even Oolong can match him and Goku for that._

Dusk had fallen now to paint the skies above with violent shades, flamelike orange burning across the city skyline as the thin spread clouds blushed pink. Padding softly out into the sepia toned world, Bulma felt the cool grass beneath bare feet to be a refreshing change, lush green blades bending easily underfoot. It made the lonely walk out to the the gravity capsule easier, bathed in dying daylight as it was—it towered high, almost a silhouette as it wrought its shadow across the grounds to creep silently up the side of her house. It was almost a thing of dread, and even now the awful sound of the explosion, with power enough to shake the very ground beneath, echoed distantly in her ears as a foreboding and ever present fear.

Shaking it off with a whip of blue curls, Bulma steeled herself for the Prince's inevitable flash of temper; he didn't like being disturbed at the best of times, let alone by her. Still, she could pass blame along to her mother, she supposed. Within the darkness cast by the massive ship, the heiress came to a stop outside of its door, peering upward and feeling the hum of static energy pull goosebumps up along her arms. Red light poured outward from the port windows, and almost imperceptibly, took critical note of the vibrations to course through the hull. The suspension of the landing gear took the brunt of it, but still, until she could refit the pressure systems as intended, Bulma simply wouldn't be able to rest easy with the Saiyan inside going full tilt.

That thought alone was enough to coax her courage, and reaching forward to open a small box on the side let her hand linger hesitant over the emergency shut off button—after the first incident, she had proposed that this ship be outfitted with an external switch, and despite Vegeta's protests, her father had quickly agreed. The green button was so very tempting, but warring with herself over that final inch, her hand darted to the side to press the smaller red switch instead. Leaning forward, she would speak into the intercom microphone and give him fair warning first.

"Vegeta, my Mom's called you in for food, okay? Pack it in and come have a shower." with an expectant blink, she withdrew her hand quickly to her chest, awaiting the gruff response that was sure to come. She almost rolled her eyes when no response came, though the urge was quickly stifled by concern.

Reluctant now, and nervous for the thought that something had gone wrong, she began to tug on her tank top impatiently. "Oh, come on, Vegeta, answer me..." she whispered to herself, suddenly desperate to hear the sound of his voice as she bounced lightly on her feet, willing it to come.

Almost a full five minutes passed before Bulma could take it no more, and mashing the button a few times to ensure obnoxious beeping alerted the Saiyan inside first, tried again with a frown and tried to seem more annoyed than worried. "Vegeta! Get out here, now! I mean it, buster, I'll shut this thing down if I have to!"

When the beep of a returned line reached her ear, she could only give a long sigh of relief despite the reply, letting herself slump forward to release the built up tension of her concern.

"I heard you the first time, Woman!" came the mechanised transmission from inside, harsh and impatient.

Holding a hand to her head as the light throb of a headache took hold of her temple, the corner of her mouth ticked. Bringing her finger back to the switch, she'd give a tired response, somewhat acidic as Bulma's temperance wore thin. "Then don't ignore me, Vegeta. If I can come out here to tell you dinner is almost ready, the least you can do is acknowledge the message." She let her finger slip down a fraction, but was more than ready to press it again—somehow, she felt an argument coming.

"What do you mean, 'almost ready'? Damn it, Woman, stop wasting my time!" he growled back with a crackle of static through the remedial speaker box. "Come and get me when it  _is_ ready!"

Letting her head rest against the vibrating metal, Bulma grit her teeth with restraint, pressing down on the button harder than necessary as she seethed a strained reply. "No, Vegeta. You need a shower. By the time you come and have one, dinner  _will_  be ready." it was like getting a child to take a bath without bubbles. "No shower, no food. Simple."

Releasing it to allow his response, all she received was a distorted growling sound, and to that, the last of her encouraged patience with him was lost. Scowling darkly to narrow cerulean eyes with a vindictive glare, she pressed back to send him a growl of her own, before her hackles were raised like a hissing cat to yell into the intercom.

"Fine! Starve! But just for being a jerk about it—" she brought a hand to viciously slap the green shut off, and with an exhaustive whirr, the gravity generator began to power down. "—you can train in your own gravity tonight!" a quick fumbling with a small plastic covering was all it took before her fingers hastily ripped the security key out of the ignition, preventing any further use of the capsule, and turning on her heel the heiress would begin to storm back toward the house.

When she had reached the back door once again, however, Bulma took pause to look back. The capsule door remained firmly sealed, and furrowing her brows in guilt and anger, the heiress gave a sorry sigh. With a shake of her head, she glanced down at the little blue key in her hand, almost forlorn.

"Damn it, Vegeta, why do you have to be like this...?" she whispered quietly to the twilight air, cool breeze tussling her blue locks with a gentle caress.

But just as she turned to make her way inside, the creak of the door ushering her halfway through the threshold, the unholy sound of metal being being forced out of shape and then giving way to an incredible force tore across the lawn. Cerulean eyes shot wide as her head whipped back toward the capsule, and Bulma was greeted by the sight of blinding blue energy bursting through the front hatch to melt a hole, fading to leave a circle of molten steel still aglow with a vengeful red shade. Mouth gaping wide as it struggled to form words enough to even exclaim her horror and outrage, she stared breathlessly at the needless carnage wrought upon the beautiful machine, frozen for a moment in sheer disbelief. At least three days work just opened up in the shape of a hole before her, and more than that, three days in which Vegeta couldn't train—by his own doing, no less.

Darting forward from the doorway to take a belligerent stance, her fists balled to match the hateful expression contorting her gorgeous visage into a scowl that would match the Saiyan's, and yelling across the grounds her anger was almost tangible.

"What the hell, Vegeta!" she waved an arm as she cried out, her volume easily carrying across the distance as an irate Prince floated out of the newly forged exit. "Are you crazy? What did you do that for? I'm going to have to replace the whole door and opening mechanism!"

His sneakers settled upon the grass, and immediately, he began stomping toward her with a murderous look that very nearly silenced her there and then—for all the sense telling her to retreat back inside before he caught up though, Bulma remained put with a stubborn sense of self righteousness. As the flame haired prince drew near, almost hunched as he bore sharp canines at her, she couldn't help but take notice of the state of him. Tanned flesh was seared with thick streaks of red, like shallow burns, and painted with blurred blotched of purple-grey bruising. Upon white knuckled fists was scrapes of raw skin, grazing on each finger and smears of dried blood were he'd wiped it from a split lip. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of even less sleep than before, and a small cut settled neatly upon his left cheek.

Painfully snapping her from her observations, the Saiyan barked at her with a sneeringly hoarse yell. "You locked me in, you imbecilic cretin! How the hell else did you expect me to get out?" stopping several feet in front of her, Vegeta would level a finger to point at her, hand shaking by a mixture of fatigue and anger. "Now thanks to your foolishness, I'll have to wait for repairs! Congratulations, Woman! You wanted me to rest on my laurels as your precious Kakarot gets stronger; well wish granted! Will there be anymore on your part to enable my death, or do you wish for me to blast us both into oblivion now and save the trouble?"

Biting her tongue, Bulma could do little more than blanch as she realised what she had done, turning the key about in her fingers and hiding it behind her thigh as if to cover her mistake. Though she tried to hold her attitude, she could feel her bold expression falter, brows twitching into something more unsure of herself than angry. An old part of her was writhing inside, wanting nothing more than to scream at him and unleash all of her rage and pent up stress in a verbal lashing that would leave sensitive Saiyan ears to ring.

A chaotic whirlwind of things thrashed within her mind, calling more than she had bargained for to the surface, and sucking air through her teeth as she readied for the argument, simply felt something break in her instead. Something snapped, and the emotional floodgates opened to send a torrent of suppressed things bubbling up all at once to overwhelm. She'd held in so much over the last few days... over the last weeks, even, and and the beast she'd caged reared its ugly head to swallow her control in one bite.

She saw something flash in his eyes besides the hellfire burning there, his head inclining a fraction and knitted black brows twitching in uncertain surprise. She didn't recognise what it was for until she felt the hot tear sliding down flushed cheek, and attention drawn to herself, she realised her slight frame gave a shudder. A sob hitched in her throat, and though she willed it to stop in shame and despair, another tear rolled free. Her features twisted beyond her control, cringing for it all, and the fight was already lost.

Her arm snapped back and the little blue key would be pelted at him before the heiress turned in haste to flee, and not even lingering to see the key's fate or the reaction gained, bare feet ran to close the distance between her and the door. A sharp and lonely slam would see the Saiyan left there, bemused and unvented in his frustrations, to stare unflinchingly at the key as it bounced off his torso to land abandoned upon the grass. He knelt slowly to retrieve it, gingerly plucking it up from the ground as he found a dark gaze rising to glance at the closed doorway, brows furrowed in a silent question that he knew would see no answer.

The Prince did not appear at the Briefs' table that night, and Bulma—though her mother faithfully brought a plate up to her room—refused to open her door.

 


	4. Of Locks and Keys

He fancied himself not unlike the steel beneath him, as Vegeta lay there atop the gravity capsule, still in need of repairs and now a full day wasted in wait of them. In his right hand, fingers turned the small blue key about obsessively—it was literally the key to his progress, after all, and in that sense of importance he handled it gingerly with pensive distraction.

It was almost a security item now, and he had not let it go since plucking it up from the grass.

Without the harsh regime to throw himself into, his thoughts were catching up to a weary mind and the Saiyan found difficulty ignoring them. It had long been that way; for as long as he was idle, the demons in his head roamed ravenous and free from the cages of routine and discipline. Uselessly sprawled at their mercy, with nothing more than spandex shorts and a pair of worn sneakers to shield him from the night air, he resigned himself to twiddling the key and staring up at the stars—or at least, what he could see of them.

The flame-haired Prince never had been fond of large cities, for a start; filled with strange scents and musty air, a car alarm here and apathy enough to leave it going there. Shallow rage flew about as motorists yelled out obscenities, and the vile sights of overweight women in obscene fashion were suffered needlessly. Children unattended or ignored, and left to pester others. Media running rampant with an idiocy-fuelled democracy in which celebrities were chosen and worshipped or condemned for whatever they peddled—even the scar faced bandit the Woman associated with had been spied by a Saiyan eye, gracing a billboard or giant screen.

No, the humdrum of these pathetic people and what they called their lives, content within concrete prisons, did nothing to excite his senses.

Adding insult to injury, the light pollution at night blocked out much of the many worlds beyond that he knew, and restrictive as ever, reduced his nightly gazing to a sad select view of the local galactic arm.

City life aside, though, an old thought bothered him. Upon his voyage to Earth, made painfully aware of it by the sensors in his pod, Vegeta had found himself to be the farthest removed from where his home had once been than ever before.

In the darkness of his scowling eyes, the notion swirled that the light of Planet Vegeta's explosive destruction may not have travelled to such lengths as yet. When he stood on the dirt of this tiny blue planet, Vegeta wondered if somewhere overhead he was haunted by the ghost of his world, marked as it was by the distant shimmer of a lonely star. Any high-powered telescope pointed to it may reveal the spectre of his planet, pristine and untouched; a perfect illusion that seemed to await him still... but in the damnable glow of an Earthling metropolis, not even the faintest speck of his home star could be traced in the sky above.

Privately, the Prince hoped such a sight had already come and gone. The Earthlings would not know the odd twinkling of his star for what it was, and none would mourn when the flicker of it died to become dim and bleak. None of them would care, nor even notice the change.

If indeed it had occurred already, not even Kakarot would likely have taken note as the ghost of his birthplace disappeared from above...

It angered—and even disturbed—the Prince more than he would like to admit. Yet another unworthy race that had lived on while his would perish, never knowing how privileged they were to have scraped by under the galaxy's numerous threats.

 _Entire worlds swept away with the flick of his wrist, and yet, not a single life lost when Frieza_ _ **and**_ _his father set foot here, intent on killing the lot of them,_ came his own voice echoing through his head. That morbid curiosity had been burning within him for some time now, and letting dark eyes scan the limited night sky, the Saiyan's mouth ticked.  _How can that be possible? How can such a mighty race fall so easily, while these ants scurry about under the foot of giants and survive even greater odds; oblivious?_

Brows knitted together as his silent questions went unheard and unanswered. An irritable sigh escaped him as he sat up, resting elbows upon scuffed knees and glaring down at black steel. The muscles around his shoulder blades were tight and held a sting, as did his calves, though none of that discomfort was evident on his face as he moved. He was making quick progress, he was sure of it... he simply had to be.

"Damn that boy..." he growled low to himself, thinking back to the day of prophecy. "How dare he make a mockery of me like that? Calling himself a Saiyan... as if Kakarot isn't an insult enough to our race as is, without some purple haired freak cropping up beside him!" A derisive snort came for it all as his fist tightened around the key. "Super Saiyans both, and here I sit at the mercy of these idiots while they twiddle thumbs over safety measures and repair work. The Saiyan Prince, left to advance at the whim of an Earth Woman..."

It was infuriating.

Cocking his head to one side, Vegeta sent a dark glare toward the balcony of one Bulma Briefs. No light was on to filter softly outward, but he knew well she was tucked away up there. He could feel her abysmal life force, keen senses narrowing in on it as if a mosquito whined beside his ear. Such a tiny and fragile sensation was annoying to even sense there, translated as a high pitched whir against the vibrato hum of power such as his, or even that of Kakarot. When the Saiyan did focus upon the pinpoint of ki she gave off in the world, he found it to be primal and inclement, prone to fluctuation and unsteady.

He had little doubt that she had spent this day—an entire night and day with not hide nor hair of her since last they spoke—in the grips of an emotional landslide; delicate little thing she was, tossed about like driftwood on the oceans of her own feelings.

But, her turmoil was trivial. His was not, brought about for the fact he couldn't progress any further until she or her father fixed the damned machine. Like many unexpected annoyances on her part, once again Vegeta found that the Woman had an uncanny ability to make  _her_  problems become  _his_  problems. When Bulma entertained chaos, it inevitably spilled into the lives of those around her, leaving everybody affected by it.

A trait the Prince was beginning to resent her deeply for.

But impatience, anxiety and perhaps even idle boredom had affixed his gaze to her balcony and refused to let it go. Despite his better judgement, something ticked over in Vegeta's mind that saw him rise to his feet. Muscles tensed to ripple beneath the scars, and slowly he began to lift himself away from the steel and up into the air with lax ease. Almost unconscious of his actions—and with only himself in mind—the Prince began to float steadily upwards and toward the Heiress' bedroom.

His stealth came easily under the cover of darkness, sharp eyes already accustomed to it as the first tattered sneaker settled upon the cold tile of her balcony. The glass of her sliding door seemed to be tinted, and the Prince found his own glare directed back at him by its reflection—even so, the faintest glow could be seen through it, blurred as it was. He moved closer, a slight sway in an attempt to see past himself in the glass, and with a suspicious squint the Saiyan took to pressing an ear against it instead.

Had he a tail still, it would've twitched in curiosity. Within the silence, the faint and muffled rumble of the Woman's snores could be heard, and a slight sneer crept over his mouth as the Prince drew back with some scorn.

 _Idle as usual,_ his mind hissed, now fixated on the thought of barging in and slapping her awake. _She can sleep when she's fixed the damned door._

Dark eyes swept the handle as he brought a hand to it, intent on warping the metal of the lock quietly with the heat of his ki, but to his surprise the door was already open by a sliver. Frowning for her lack of security as he slid it open softly, Vegeta couldn't help but roll his eyes—perhaps she would be expecting the scarred idiot to come calling instead, leaving it ajar to invite some secretive tryst.

Before he'd crossed the threshold though, the scent of her room took him aback, overpowering his sensitive nose as it was unleashed by the opened door. It was like a wall, smelling of stale coffee with the near burning chemical scent of perfumes to cover it. Blinking to keep his eyes from watering, it was a good moment or so before the Saiyan finally stepped in, giving a jerk of his head as if to rid himself of the off-putting taste in the air...

Oh, how he suddenly wished he hadn't, when his scent-blurred vision cleared.

Vegeta's whole body tensed with shock as, wide eyed, he took in the state of her dwelling—books, rubbish and clothes upon the carpet, bed unmade and a mess of tangled cords stemming from a power board. Empty cups and half consumed snack foods littered the room. Her belongings were on the  _floor_ , when not jammed into an overstocked bookshelf of knick-knacks and CDs, completely unorganised. In such chaos it was a wonder the Woman could even dress herself, let alone undertake complex mathematics or work with fragile circuitry.

How dare she pretend to know what was best for him when—clearly—she couldn't even take care of herself? He almost pitied the state of it all, a nervous squeeze given to the blue key for having breathed the tainted air. The risk of respiratory infection was not something he wished to entertain, though now he could understand what the Woman meant when she mentioned 'feeling under the weather' as an excuse for delayed tasks. He would be careful not to touch anything unless necessary, an itch settling in his palms as he remembered he wasn't wearing any gloves.

… _And she complains about_ _ **my**_ _hygiene? Does her hypocrisy know no bounds?_

Grimacing with disgust as his attention swept the Heiress' bedroom, his ears twitched to the sound of her snoring again, though to the Prince's surprise, the noise didn't come from the folds of her bed.

Half silhouetted under the faint glow of a computer screen, tussled curls of blue splayed out over an arm and her keyboard, the Heiress' sleeping form lay slumped upon her desk. The unflattering pink nightgown covered her down to the knees, legs languishing from the plush cushion of a swivel chair as the soft light played upon her features. With her frail form curled over scattered notes it was clear she had exhausted herself over something, though even from a few feet back, Vegeta could make out the puffy redness around her eyes—it was likely she had simply cried herself to sleep, though he hadn't the faintest clue as to what was upsetting her.

_If it's me, then she's more stupid than her hair looks._

Taking a moment to glance over her, the Saiyan turned the small key over in his fingers once more, caught studying her with a morbid fascination. His interactions with her were out of necessity and convenience, a mutual service—for the moment—to prepare for a common enemy, though increasingly, Bulma seemed to be investing herself much too personally in their dealings with one another. His gaze dropped to the key as it rested in his palm, and recalling their last spat, Vegeta wondered of the rapport she continued to impose upon him.

From where he stood, he had been very clear. He did not wish for companionship, or require any more from her than the upkeep of his training equipment, and his harsh and dismissive behaviour with her should've been more than enough to discourage all else. He didn't pretend to understand why she refused to just let him be, and for the most part tried to ignore her and her family, making himself as separate from their lives as possible while still living within the compound. But as dark eyes traced the Heiress' gorgeous features in the darkness, he found they evoked an unwanted image.

She looked much the same as she did that day after the explosion; cradled upon the hardwood table at his bedside, weary with worry and waiting for him to wake. Gods only knew what had possessed her to remain there, after she had arranged medical treatment for him, knowing she could do no more to aid his recovery. Perhaps she simply felt useful there, wanting to claim his resilience as her own triumph.

Bulma had labelled it care, whenever it did come up. Vegeta, however, felt it much more resembled a want for control.

With a careful squint to the mess about his feet, the Prince made his way slowly over to where she rested, a good effort made not to step on anything or make any noise in his movements. Stepping over a waste paper basket to stand beside her now, he allowed himself to peruse her desk top, scanning her notes in the changing light of a screensaver.

Raising a black brow slowly, calloused fingers took to poking through the paper, sliding them around to get a better picture of her work. Some of it he understood, other pieces escaped him specifically, while a few things looked familiar. Rough sketches of the Gravity Capsule alongside preliminary designs for some sort of part for it caught his attention as he uncovered them, and a placated smirk graced him. If the idle pencil near a limp hand spoke anything about what she'd been doing while locked up in her room, he was pleased to find it relevant to himself.

 _At least she has sense enough not to forget where her priorities lie,_ he thought, his attention drawn to the mouse beside her, and placing the key down upon her desk he couldn't help himself.

Leaning over her to reach for it with a sly gaze trained upon the slumbering Heiress' face, just a tentative poke was enough to sate his curiosity, the screen lighting up to reveal a plethora of open windows and projects. At the change in luminosity though, Bulma stirred some, blue brows furrowing some in subconscious protest to it. Vegeta grew cautiously still as he saw the change, watching like a hawk for any signs of her waking and cursing himself internally for not expecting it.

He wasn't sure when exactly his intention to disturb her sleep had faded, but to be caught in such a position now might cause him more trouble than it was worth. Holding his breath as the woman shifted slightly beneath his arm, a flash of horror caught him when long lashes parted some to blink slowly, half asleep.

"…Mm… Vegeta…?"

He said nothing. He didn't move. There was every chance he could still escape her realisation of reality, letting her tired mind lull her back into whatever fantasy she entertained previously. To his relief, her gaze drifted unfocussed towards him, and he could easily tell her night vision was poor in comparison to his own. Still, she seemed to know his silhouette, content in her haze to study the familiar shadow as she murmured still, barely coherent.

"I know you're much nicer… in my head, but…" a slow blink threatened to send her back to dozing. "Can't… keep dreaming of you like… this… Yamcha… s'not right of me… so soon after… bad enough as it is." her lips barely moved around the words, but already, Vegeta's interest was piqued.

Staring down at her with a clinical sense of amusement, the smirk flirted dangerously with the corner of his mouth, and he saw a strange opportunity to draw honesty from her. Carefully so as not to startle her with any sudden movements, he righted himself to his full height, drawing backward from the revealing glow of her screen to cock a brow.

He licked his lips in thought of what to say, a sly taste on his tongue as he spoke quiet and slow, losing some of the gravel to his tone. "That almost sounds as if you've parted ways on bad terms..." he was careful not to let his delight at that show through. The more time the Woman had to spare the better, and her 'friends and relations' only served to sidetrack her from important matters.

He was almost certain she suffered from some sort of attention deficit disorder.

In her delirious state, Bulma's features twisted into a slight frown, as if in denial. "Mm… n-no not… like that." Her speech was warped by a wide yawn then. "I… broke it off… few days back…But s'no excuse for you… t'pop up in my dreams again…"

"Does that mean I won't be seeing that idi—" he paused, correcting himself. She said he was 'nice' in her head, didn't she? Wouldn't want her to realise the real him was in her room, gleaning personal information. " _Yamcha_ … hanging around to distract you from here on out?"

 _Perhaps I should entertain miracles more often,_ he smirked to himself.

Instead of a straightforward answer as he'd hoped for, though, even in her sleep talk Bulma seemed as eager to prattle as she did in waking, quick to tangent. She shifted some, readjusting her head a little and closing her eyes again. "S'your fault too. If you hadn't… kissed me in that first dream… wouldn't be worried 'bout him being… jealous… getting the wrong ideas…" she mumbled, too out of it to lace her tone with the defensiveness she would've otherwise. Breathless and barely audible, she continued after a slight pause. "Not the point… but… if you weren't here… be… easier t'deal with… can't even break up without you being involved, somehow… everything's always 'bout you."

Any trace of the smirk soon fled him, the angular lines of his face darkening within the faint glow to scowl. Already, this was beginning to stray from his expectations, steadily seeming a futile disappointment like all other dealings with her. A kiss shared in a dream? Now it was all beginning to make sense. If there was any place Vegeta truly understood, it was the inside of a head; psychology had long been a strong suit of his, having constantly battled the tides of his own restless ocean of thoughts, let alone reading others in battle.

A nicer, perhaps more polite version of himself—an ideal—forged in her head, submissive enough to kiss  _her_? A whipping boy and emotional slave to her, serving faithfully while caught in a spell of desire… no doubt stemmed from her over-inflated ego and vanity. He knew well enough it wasn't to be taken so literally as that, but the symbolism was clear.

Her ideal 'him' was likely not so different from the 'boyfriend' role she had the Bandit play.

She expected affection and endearment; for him to pander to her comforts and conduct, falling into line with the rest of her spineless friends and bending to her whims to avoid her ire. She did not wish to be challenged or fight to earn her self claimed spotlight of adoration. He was right, it wasn't care at all—it was control, and expected conformity. The Woman wished him to play by her cultural ruling and personal preferences, and all the while she simply refused to acknowledge and respect his own.

 _Well, no wonder she gets so upset with me,_ his mind hissed sarcastically, glaring eyes scouring her form with enough hate in them to set her nightgown alight.  _She's still caught wondering why the world isn't her pony, and here I come to tread upon her rainbows._

At his sides, calloused hands clenched tightly into fists, tense with the want to strike something. Gritting his teeth as he steeled himself enough not to yell at her, tearing her from her haze and spitting poison at her blasted dreams, the Prince would incline his head with a low growl, thinly veiling his anger.

"Woman…" he ground out forcefully with a sneer, though maintained his quiet volume. "The designs you've been working on for updating the gravity machine. Are they finished?" it was bitter, slithering through his teeth to chill the air as dark eyes narrowed.

Stirred back from the brink of sleep just as she'd begun to drift away again, the Heiress furrowed her brows, frowning drowsily for the disturbance. Without even glancing up, she grimaced for it, and reflexively rubbed her nose as she drawled an answer. "Nn… Yeah… Pressure systems, all… done… prototypes… gotta install…"

Turning from the very sight of her, he glanced back over his shoulder, wanting to distance himself from the capricious little tart as soon as possible. "Good." He spat coldly, before making hasty strides toward her bedside table, kicking a pile of clothes aside as he went. Snatching the digital clock up, he began to set an alarm, pressing the buttons firmly and setting it down with audible resolution.

"If you have any semblance of respect for who I am, and what I do…" the Saiyan made to take his leave of her filthy room, pausing on the threshold of her balcony to grip the frame of the sliding door. "…you  _will_  be out of this room and starting work on it by seven tomorrow morning."

The harsh tone was too foreign to her ear to be accepted as fantasy for very long, and disturbed by it, Bulma shifted restlessly as his words buzzed in the fringe of her tired mind. But with the sharp sound of her door sliding swift to be slammed, hitting the latch with such force it bounced open again by a sliver, the Heiress found her slumber painfully shattered to sit bolt up in her chair. Shaken awake by it, her clearing eyes blinked to take in her surrounds, frantic with confusion as they searched the darkness for the source of her fright.

Letting go of a breath she didn't realise she'd held, her hand drifted to her chest as if to calm her beating heart. She didn't know what the bang was, so startled she could barely recall what she'd been dreaming of, but as she leaned upon the desk to bury her face in her hands, she found it glinting softly beneath the glow of her screen. Threatening to throw her sanity into chaos, she stared at it in disbelief, tentative fingers brushing it simply to affirm it was real.

The little blue ignition key had appeared upon her desk, unmistakable as the one she had thrown at Vegeta when last they fought. As Bulma held it to the faint light, taken aback with some horror for the find, the haze of sleep left her enough to allow her mind a rather startling acuity. In the throes of a conspiracy, she stood quickly, rolling her chair aside and nearly bounding toward the glass door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her intruder.

Not even a shadow of him remained.


	5. Returning the Favour

The shrill beeping of the alarm at seven was obnoxious and loud, piercing the air like a wailing child, and it was a rude awakening for the restless Heiress when it came. Since the startling sound that woke her in the night, Bulma had tossed and turned with a great sense of unease, resigning herself back to her bed and trying desperately to take comfort in its warmth.

Rolling on her side to smack the clock carelessly with a pillow, she lazed there a moment to spite it, uncaring that the covers had long been kicked off of her legs. She didn't set an alarm. Blue eyes traced the wooden surface of her bedside table and spied the little key, still as real as it had been when she'd found it on her desk.

There was no doubt in her mind now, recalling a hazy sense of the Prince's presence in her dreams with a frown. No, it wasn't a dream… Vegeta had been in her room, and she saw all the proof she needed.

Why? She still hadn't the foggiest idea, though she'd strained her mind as it sat between sleep and wakefulness to remember it more clearly. Fleeting glimpses were all she had of it, enough to know that he'd definitely been there, but not enough to piece together their conversation. The fuzzy memory of his voice burned in her ears even now, and releasing her grip on the pillow, Bulma was left seething—and mortified—by such a breach of her privacy.

Sitting up she sent an accusatory glare toward her computer across the room, knowing it held the finished work on the pressure systems, and held on to the one clear message she could wrench from her brain.

_You_ _**will** _ _be out of this room and starting work on it by seven tomorrow morning._

Fuelled by anger, Bulma shifted quickly, sliding herself out of bed and grabbing the key with haste. "He wants me out of bed, does he? Fine…" She hissed to herself, venomous in her resignation to complete the work as intended, despite him. "It's high time he got a wake up call himself."

She practically tore the nightgown over head to change, scrunching it up some to toss it at the bed in frustration. She would make no extra effort for that man than was required; a black tank top and three quarter yoga pants were enough, even a bra forgone in favour of comfort. Slipping into a simple pair of black flats quickly and snatching a puffy jacket from a pile on the floor, only a brief glance to her mirror was given. As expected, her hair was a mess of languid curls, tangled and unkempt, and she was sure she spotted dark rings under her eyes.

She knew she looked like crap, but she just didn't care anymore. Where did anybody get off judging her on appearance in her own home, anyway? It was her hallways, her lab, her yard—she was tired, stressed and alone, overworked and underappreciated. What difference did it make if she did her hair properly or made the effort to wear makeup?

Her good looks wouldn't defeat the androids, or get the gravity machine in working order, and they certainly didn't do anything to entice Vegeta's charm… if he even had any.

Jacket zipped and door slammed, the Heiress would storm down the hall, stomping her way down the stairs as if each one was the Saiyan's foot. Her fist was tight around the key as she came down into the living room, passing the archway to the kitchen without pause. The smell of bacon cooking didn't sway her either, not even a glance given to her mother as she went about breakfast with a cheery hum.

"Morning, Sweetie! Are you feeling any better?" Pansy called airily, wiping her hands on a tea towel. But when her daughter didn't stop or reply, the blonde knew something was very wrong, her heart falling in her chest with concern. "…Bulma?"

The harsh snapping open and slamming of the front door didn't bode well at all, and Pansy flinched for the sound of it, giving a surprised 'oh!' before turning quickly to the window. Leaning over the sink, she would open it with some panic, trying in vain to poke her head out far enough to see. Helplessly, she chanced a yell, cupping her hand and hoping to high heaven her daughter would hear it.

"Bulma, wait…! Sweetie, think about it before you go upsetting things, I know you're hurting but you can't take it out on others…!" craning to see, she caught the glimpse of blue making a beeline for the gravity chamber, and it was clear that Bulma had ignored her. Unsure of what to do to prevent conflict, Pansy held her breath for a moment, pulling herself back in and thinking frantically for a distraction as her finger pressed to her lips. "Oh, dear…"

Within the minute, the Heiress had crossed the lawns to be within earshot of the capsule, wasting no time in raising her voice to it, instinct telling her that—regardless of functionality—she'd find the Prince inside.

"Vegeta! Get out here,  **now**!"

Coming to a stop in front of the twisted metal of the hole where the door once was, Bulma glared up at it absolutely affronted, her arms crossed tensely beneath her bust. In that moment she looked far more like Vegeta than herself, as if trying to mimic his surly behaviour, though the rage shimmering in blue eyes burned brightly.

Before long, she caught the glimpse of his hair first, listening to his slow steps as they echoed within the chamber. It felt like a small eternity waiting for him to appear, but finally, wearing nothing but a pair of grey night shorts, the Prince settled a bare foot on the edge of the mottled steel to stare down at her. Now it seemed he was the drowsy one, a cold calm about him betraying that he didn't care for the way she came calling, and sleepless dark eyes took stock of her quietly.

Bulma readied a lungful of air to speak again, but with a click of his tongue, the Saiyan beat her to the punch in a much more controlled tone.

"I almost didn't expect you to get up at all… but judging by the lack of tools with you, I suppose you might as well have stayed in bed, anyway." it was clear he was unimpressed with her, but instead of snarling it through his teeth as he normally might have, he looked more like he was suffering from a headache than anger. It took Bulma aback enough to see her scowl falter momentarily, and the Prince gave a defeated and resentful sigh, flicking his hand in dismissal as he turned to retreat back in.

Her mouth open at the audacity of it, how _flippant_  he was about it, the Heiress cocked her head back to scoff in disbelief. "Now you wait just a damn minute! Don't you turn your back on me! …Vegeta!" having left her sight again, she gave an irritated groan and bristled like a cat in water to stomp her foot. "That's it!" she cried suddenly, throwing her arms to her sides and stalking forward with intent to climb up after him.

_You invade my space, I'll invade yours!_ Bending her knees to jump, it took a few tries before she accepted it was too high for her. Not to be outdone, though, her stubborn nature and resourcefulness shone through, and with no more than a glance to the nearest leg of the ship, she was upon the white of it with haste. Standing with added height now, the key was transferred to her teeth quickly, freeing up her hand. She'd lean to get a firm hold of the warped lip of the hole he'd blasted, swinging out to dangle from it and shimmying along some. With a spirited wiggle and some effort, she finally managed to get her elbow over and pull herself upward. Swinging a leg over, Bulma straddled the metal for a moment, near furious as she scanned the chamber for any sign of him. When no sign of him could be traced, she was quick in her deduction, standing to make a run for the ladder down to the sleeping quarters without a second thought.

He was in for it, now; no ifs, ands or buts. There were going to be questions, answers, and a very clear line drawn in the sand.

She slid down the ladder without touching a single rung. Her feet were swift and quiet as she rounded through the kitchenette to turn into the only place he could be—a tiny bedroom and en suite bathroom, left over from the capsule's original design as a ship. When Bulma stepped across  _his_ threshold in turn, puffing some from the effort of catching up to the Prince, she was ropable.

To the left of her he stood waiting, leaning against the wall beside the doorframe, arms crossed over his scarred chest. The instant she caught sight of him in the corner of her eye, she rounded on him with a whip of tussled blue curls, ripping the key from her mouth and thrusting it at him as if it were his signature on a death warrant.

"Where the hell do you get off, coming into my room like that in the dead of night, you psychopath?!" she spat the words at him like knives, intent on flaying him where he stood. "Did you really think I was stupid enough not to realise it, when you set a god damned  _alarm_ , Vegeta? I can't believe you; coming into  _my_  personal space, with  _no_  respect for my privacy, spying on my work like it's  _owed_  to you and trying to con  _even more_  out of me in my  _sleep_!"

Flashing her teeth to snap harshly at him, it only riled her up more that the Prince seemed to be taking it all in stride, staring her down without so much as a blink. Growling with disgust for his behaviour, she began to shake the key at him, as if it would help drum the words into his thick ape skull.

"I am not your door mat, Vegeta! I'm working as hard as I can on keeping up with your needs, in between everything else! You don't even use my name; the least you could do is stay the hell out of my room and wait for the repairs, but even that seems to be asking too much!"

Without missing a beat, the Saiyan gave a slow nod to their surrounds, and the trap was sprung. "…But you have no qualms in returning the favour, it seems." He gave a tired sounding sigh, closing his eyes as if it pained him to keep looking at her—her ridiculous hair colour never did make the task any easier, even without her making a fool of herself otherwise. "Or did you not consider that, in between however you managed to get in and bursting into my quarters to chastise me?"

The Heiress whipped her head back defensively, wide eyes turning to scan the room for any excuse to deny it, though as the gravity of where she was standing finally hit her, a strange duality between them became shockingly obvious.

Vegeta's room was completely bare, stark and lonely and built of pure necessity. Cold tile lined the floors uncovered by any mat to warm it, though she knew there was one stored in the thin closet beside her. The simplistic double bed was immaculately made, sheets tucked so perfectly you could very well bounce a coin off of them, and only two white pillows graced it—she could guess the extra pair was also left neglected in storage. Not only that, she couldn't spot a single drop of blood anywhere, despite the Saiyan's habit for ignoring his wounds.

The pictures and landscapes were stripped from the walls and stacked neatly in one corner to hide there unseen. None of the fake plants her father had installed to stave off cabin fever in flight remained. It smelt clinical and clean, without even the barest hint of sweat. Even a few pairs of sneakers sat neatly tucked at the bottom of white drawers, which no doubt held what little clothes he had, folded and organised to await being destroyed in his training.

It didn't look like anybody used it at all, and in truth, Bulma hadn't immediately known this  _was_ serving as his bedroom. Yet confronted by it, she realised then that Vegeta must've slept here more often than not, forgoing the invitation of a room inside the house in favour of his solitude. Yes, her mother had confirmed it on several occasions—bemused by it as she rambled—that the guest room prepared for him went unused, now that the Heiress thought back.

The surprise in it distracted her as blue eyes roamed the space in disbelief, knowing that such living conditions—while clean—certainly couldn't be a healthy reflection on the one who kept them so. It was almost stifling as Bulma felt a strange sense of claustrophobia wash over her, stealing the angry words from her mouth to leave her perturbed by it instead. When finally the heiress' gaze found his again, those dark eyes seemed emptier than she'd ever seen them, as if he were nothing but a shell without a soul.

Even his scowling visage seemed bereft of any true expression, blank and distant as he regarded her in silence. Clearly, her barging in to  _his_ room without permission did not hold the same affect as it had upon her. If he was offended in the slightest or felt any kind of intrusion, for the life of her, Bulma couldn't see it.

That scared her more than she realised, when Vegeta broke his reticence to draw her back from the epiphany. In his mind, what he'd said to her was binding—she may have been up at seven, but she certainly wasn't working to fix any problems. No, more like start some new ones, instead… his question was of respect, and her answer was all too clear.

She had none, and he would give none in turn.

"Such double standards…" the Saiyan mused with a click of his tongue, condescension lingering on the edge of it. "That explains why your father hasn't handed the company over to you yet, though your mother often boasts that you're some sort of prodigy." he offered it suddenly, quiet and detached as he held her gaze, and Bulma watched in horror as cruel flash took his eyes. "With such poor skills in leadership, you'd be unfit to rule an anthill… You can barely organise your own room. I won't even bother going into how you lack determination, Woman. Your laziness is almost as appalling as your unreliability."

The brunt of what he said hit her with enough force to back step, the words slithering through her head like serpents, sinking their fangs into tender flesh with a sharp and unexpected sting. For a moment she simply gaped at the nerve of him, before blue eyes narrowed into icy slivers, lip curled as a flare of raw hatred seized her.

"…Excuse me?" she enunciated it slowly, quietly cold and allowing him a chance to second guess himself, perhaps even retract what he'd said. He made no visible move to do so, not even a smirk to show he was amusing himself, or simply trying to get a rise out of her. No, this was personal; she could see it in written all over him. She could hear the sincerity in his gravelled voice, though at present it ran smoothed, like a lie.

"You heard me." the Prince inclined his head, and the evil flash in his eyes marked his words with a predatory truth. "At first I assumed you to be actively sabotaging my progress, perhaps to keep me trailing after your beloved Kakarot… strong enough to make a difference against the androids, but not so much so as to kill him when all is said and done. But now I understand that would be giving you far too much credit." A roll of his shoulders finished it, and his head cocked upwards again with a haughty tilt.

"I  _will_  become a Super Saiyan sooner or later, and when I do, you'll know how  _little_  control over me you actually have. Beg and cry all you want when it comes to it, but no matter how fiercely you yell, I'll still be laying Kakarot's corpse at your feet… maybe I'll put him in your bedroom with the rest of the trash."

Bulma was livid. Without hesitation or thought, no sooner than he'd uttered the last of it did her arm move to strike him. She didn't care if he'd block it with ease. She didn't even care if he'd hit her back. In those last few moments something simply snapped in her head and all thoughts of redemption for the Saiyan—any concern for him, all traces of affection or empathy—were set ablaze. All she knew was that right now, she despised him entirely, and he didn't deserve her friendship or her care.

It all seemed to happen in a blur; Vegeta moving to catch her fist as expected while Bulma's other arm was hurled to compensate, autonomous as she struggled in vain—against impossible odds—just for the slim chance she may hurt him. She simply couldn't stop herself, literally kicking and screaming as he held her at bay with a bemused look of surprise plastered on his features. The Heiress did not see it, her blue eyes bound shut against the burn of tears again, though this time they were of helpless rage. The words came streaming out of her, high pitched and cracked, intended to assault his eardrums as best she could manage while fighting his grip.

"The only way you'll ever be a damned Super Saiyan is through  _mine_  and my father's technology, you arrogant prick! This is  _my_  house!  _My_  family's money, food, patience…! I invited you here as a  _guest_ , and whether you help fight the androids or not, it's high fucking time you started acting like one! Barging in to dictate my affairs and judge my every move, holding me to task like a slave and demanding the world on a string, like my life revolves around you…!" her whole body shook in its tension and Bulma's cheeks flushed bright red, her knees searching for his groin of their own accord in her great effort to cause him pain.

Though taken aback initially by her feisty—though poorly executed—attack, Vegeta was quick to regain his senses, blocking her blow with his thigh reflexively. Baring his teeth now, his own scowl deepened, furious for the nerve of her want to strike him at all, let alone there; such a dirty move was low even for her. The Prince's hold on her wrists tightened to an extent he knew she found painful, cordlike muscle rippling to keep the woman at arm's length without much trouble, but even all of it seemed to go unnoticed in her fury. His ears were ringing already with the sound of the harpy's shrieking voice, bringing him to wince whenever she emphasised a word.

He had killed for less, in the past… but he was a man bound by his word where Bulma was concerned. Such was the tradition among his people, thanks to a lesser population of female Saiyans in the past—when a man gave his word to a woman, he held to it. She may have been an Earthling, but  _he_  was the Saiyan Prince, and as such the task fell to him to embody and preserve what his race once was, regardless. He wasn't to touch her; wasn't to _truly_  harm her or take advantage of her so long as their accord held. No matter what she may have done to frustrate him, Vegeta intended to honour that, if only to spite her…

He was, however, currently entertaining regret for making their verbal contract in the first place.

"Damn it, Woman, get  _off_  of me…!" he yelled back with a growl, willing her to back down before he  _did_  slip up and hurt her, though it was lost as Bulma continued straight over the top of it, still trying desperately to kick at him.

"I open up my home, offer forgiveness and kindness from the bottom of my heart, giving you a second chance you  _so_  do  _not_  deserve, and you think you can just walk in and take over? News flash, Vegeta, this is not a planet you can just wander in and claim like the rest of them! How dare you, throwing all the hard work we've put into your equipment in our face! If you break it, it isn't good enough; if you can't break it, you try to kill yourself in the process! Not once have you even thanked me for what I've done for you, not  _once!_  You wanna keep threatening my friends and insulting me? Well, let's just see how fast this thing can get fixed if the job is left up to a stupid monkey like y—"

_Fuck the accord._

At that word—that old trigger, like a raw nerve all too easily stuck—the Saiyan's restraint faltered, a vicious anger flaring up on reflex to hurl the Heiress to the floor, as if to touch her seared his very flesh. Her shoulder hit the cold tile first, a jarring impact rushing through her bones to bruise hip and thigh as well, sending a painful wince across Bulma's gorgeous features. It took a moment to register what had happened, her world spinning in her head as her sense of place wavered to the thick pressure in her arm, and she realised she'd been thrown a few good meters when, slowly, her eyes cracked open again to blink back the tears.

A tense silence settled upon them as the blue haired women rolled to place a palm to the floor, shifting into a half-sitting position an holding herself up some to stare back at him. She could feel the uncomfortable patches of heat about her body, knowing they would hurt more as time went on, but with the chaotic whirlwind of emotions filling her, she could scarcely feel the damage done. The flame haired Prince stood halted as if frozen in place, a visible twitch coursing though taut muscle as he bit back on whatever urge tempted him. His lips pulled thin into a stoic line, that spark of hellfire in his dark eyes seemed to fade, leaving nothing but thick black smoke to coil there as his fists shook lightly by his sides. Flicking them a glance, Bulma even saw his toes curl, and it was frighteningly clear that he was fighting a very powerful instinct, if not a habit, in reaction to what she'd said.

For all their fights and banter, this was perhaps the closest to real danger she'd ever come, and she could taste it in the air around them—a foul uncertainty, seeping up through thin, cracked ice.

Regaining most of his composure, Vegeta drew a slow breath, willing frayed nerves to calm as he glared down at the woman on his floor. He held it briefly, waging his jaw some as he reflected carefully on what he wanted to say, and when he spoke it was barely more than a whisper, his dark eyes little more than murderous slits. "…If you  _ever_  call me that again… accord or not, Woman, I will take your soul straight down to hell."

Bulma took to rubbing her abused arm lightly as she took that in, noting the odd reaction she'd seen—it wasn't like him to have such violent knee-jerk reactions to name calling, and privately, she wondered what the history behind that one in particular was.

Despite that though, she was in too far to back down, and still resolute in drawing that line in the sand, she continued with a firm but quiet reply. "You  _murdered_ my first love in cold blood, before trying to destroy my planet entirely. Realistically, Vegeta, I should have the right to call you whatever I want, and treat you with utter distain." She lifted her head up lightly, holding back her unease when she saw his lip curl into a sneer. "…But I try very hard not to, because I thought you deserved the opportunity to be even marginally better, given you never had a chance to be anything else before now... I leave those things in the past and focus on the future, instead, as much as I can."

Rubbing her nose with a small sniff, she glanced down at the floor to trace the tiled squares, adding to that thought musingly. "That's why I broke up with Yamcha. It was great when we were younger, but now we've hit the wall of it, and our future together doesn't look so great… that, and all my spare time was already signed over to you. But apparently, that still wasn't good enough."

She wasn't even sure if Vegeta was even listening anymore, caught in some internal war with himself over something as distant eyes kept track of her movements. His fists had relaxed now, hands flexing idle and unsure as if he didn't know what to be doing with them at present. Had he a tail, it would've been thrashing furiously behind him, bristled and fuzzed. He seemed to be studying her closely, as if seeing something he hadn't previously, but judging by the still present air of outrage boiling just beneath his surface, she doubted very much it was anything good.

With a defeated shrug she sighed, picking herself up slowly and wincing some for the discomfort. When she was on her feet again, she found her gaze tracing the numerous scars about his torso, and feeling slightly guilty now for how this had turned out, Bulma grimaced ruefully.

"…I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you, if you feel that way. But you're a pretty big disappointment yourself. I was going to install the upgrades tomorrow, either way, but at least now I know not to bother feeling satisfied with the job I'll do. You sure won't." With her anger steadily slipping through her fingers to be replaced by discontented regret, she was ready to resign herself to two and a half more years of lonesome, overworked misery with the Saiyan Prince and just give up any hope of improvement. "I just wanted a little more consideration, but fine. Be that way. I don't care anymore. You're never going to be better than Goku with that attitude anyway, if you treat your battles anything like you treat people."

"…Get out." He growled low, his gaze falling hatefully to the floor—whatever he was considering had been decided, and it was not in her favour at all. When she hesitated, staring at him a moment more, it was clear her presence in his room had suddenly begun to disturb him greatly, and hackles raised to her, scowling eyes snapped back upon hers. " **Out!** " he roared finally, and with a visible flinch, the woman was quick to take her leave of him, padding swiftly out through the kitchenette and headed for the ladder in retreat.

As the Prince stared at the space where she had been, his mind churned over what had been spoken here today, gauging whether or not this was beneficial to his advancement. When she had moved to strike him in anger, she had kicked and screamed and hated, more than that too, her true opinion of him had been shown. He didn't like it at all, unable to fully process why it bothered him so deeply. But as key phrases echoed in his head, sensitive ears still ringing with the pitch of them, he thought of an old enemy that held a startling resemblance in nature to that of Bulma Briefs.

It was evoked by little things she said, reminding him of an age gone by;  _I open up my home… and you think you can just walk in and take over? News flash, Vegeta, this is not a planet you can just wander in and claim like the rest of them!_  The contentions of two very different races, inhabiting the same space;  _barging in to dictate my affairs and judge my every move, holding me to task like a slave and demanding the world on a string!_ The want of control, when strength was taken to task with technology;  _throwing all the hard work we've put into this equipment in our face!_

Her weak power, that frail body, even the strange and ever changing hair. Her dependence upon and understanding of technology, her life in a bustling metropolis… the way she would order him about and think him an idiot for lacking the technical skill needed to maintain the gravity chamber himself. Her secret desires to see him become a submissive slave to her whim, and her brazen use of him as a weapon against the androids to secure her own survival.

Vegeta felt his stomach lurch when finally his epiphany ran its course, resulting in a disgustingly ironic conclusion as to who exactly he was forced to rely upon, cursed by such a dependency while in this uphill battle against fate…

The Woman reminded him of a Tuffle in almost every way.

 


	6. Calling for Backup

Standing amidst the usual clutter of her bedroom, soaked blue curls still dripping from a well-deserved hot shower, the reflection in Bulma's mirror was not kind to her as it whispered of a terrible truth.

Tired eyes stared back at her, roaming over pale flesh as it sat exposed with nothing more than a pink towel wrapped about her torso. The heat and steam had brought them out, awfully stained blotches of grey and yellow, with hints of purple blushing darkly over her thigh and upper arm.

Bruises from when she had been thrown.

She had expected them, she supposed, but not to this extent. The damage was done, and the proof of Vegeta's nature marked her very skin. She knew it wasn't that he'd openly tried to injure her. She knew also that she had not helped the situation, having snapped and tried to hit him as she had—what more could she have expected from the ruthless Prince, than at the very lest to be shoved.

As delicate fingers traced the markings carefully, echoes of their episode earlier that day whispered hollow through her mind. Something had changed. It was no longer simply banter, or a flare of temper. It wasn't hot-headed tiffs and arguments caused by stress. What he had said was personal, vindictive, and premeditated; tailored to trigger and hurt her emotionally. Overly the day, she had thought about it from every angle, wondering deeply of what had happened and removing herself from the situation to look at things honestly.

Psychological warfare was, where Vegeta—who had been forged into a weapon of genocide from childhood—was concerned, an awful precursor to the chance of very real danger.

No matter what she did, or how hard she tried, it was never good enough for him. It didn't matter what emotional state she was in—be she lonely, angry, bitter, or dead on her feet—he was there to belittle her, test her, and drag her through the mud even further. Perhaps, after the life he'd had, that was all he could offer others… a little share of his pain, so that he wouldn't feel as though his suffering was an isolated occurrence; a whipping boy to the worst of the universe.

She could understand, she supposed, that Vegeta's lack of care for others was simply an extension of the lack of care shown to him. But that didn't mean she would accept it, or offer herself up as a emotional punching bag. No matter how bad things were, or how terrible the demons in his head, the Prince simply did not have the right to destroy others in his pains.

Somehow, things had shifted so far as to lend malice to the strained relationship she kept with the Saiyan, without cause or provocation on her part that she really knew to place. For things to have slipped so far—despite every fraying thread between them she tried to ravel up—this was, even in her mercy, inexcusable.

This was the tip of an iceberg she could not allow herself of her family to crash upon, and it was  _her_  mistaken kindness that could bring them harm, if the Prince continued down this path.

In the solemn silence of regret and disappointment, a subtle anger burning dim in her heart, the Heiress locked eyes with her visage in the mirror, knowing full well she'd done all she could to help him and somehow failed; no, that wasn't quite right.  _He_ had failed  _her_. There was nothing more she could offer, if this was the very limit to what he would return. She would not have him here, if danger truly bubbled so closely beneath his surface that even after all the time she'd allowed him to put such things aside—tried to reach out to him, and give reason to do so—she came away with bruises like these; intentional or not.

Vegeta had to go, and he had to go tonight.

Glancing to her desk, still littered with notes and papers from the night before, she traced the curved outline of her cordless phone. She didn't want to have to call, but to evict the surly Saiyan and effectively cut him off from her hospitality—free her enslaved family, more like—she may need some support. It was almost a cheap shot, knowing how the Prince felt about his last surviving subject… but Bulma thought it was best to at least give a heads up to her old friend for the sake of her security, if not back up. Perhaps even some helpful advice or reassurance would help steel her resolve.

Tugging hesitantly at her towel as she sidled quickly between the waste paper basket and her swivel chair, Bulma reached out to let her hand hover uncertainly over the pink plastic of the phone.  _No, Bulma, you have to. This is just one of those bullets we have to bite, and Vegeta has to learn he can't get away with this kind of behaviour on Earth. These things have to have consequences._ She sighed heavily, closing her eyes tightly to wince for the thought of telling him, but plucking up the courage her hand would snatch up the receiver and dial the number quickly.

As she held it to her ear, her free hand rising to allow a thumbnail to be chewed upon, she listened to the dial tone with some desperation and hoped to hell he'd be home for dinner by now.  _Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up… Put the fork down and pick up…_

A moment of silence, and then came a youthful voice, polite though clearly distracted from something as he fumbled with his grip of the phone.

"Hello, Son residence, um… Who is speaking, please?"

Caught by it, Bulma smiled with some nostalgia, instantly eased by the youthful tone as she found herself charmed. "Oh wow, Gohan…" she breathed softly, a fond memory brushing her heart. "Have I ever told you that you sound just like your dad did at your age, kiddo?"

It was only then, hearing that familiar voice, that she truly realised how long it had been since seeing any of them. Months had gone by, achingly slow, like a small eternity since she'd seen Goku's smile or the twinkle in Gohan's eye. She rang Chichi every so often, but it wasn't the same as getting together. Her chest tightened ever so slightly for it, and suddenly, she knew how badly she'd missed them. "…How've you been?"

It took a moment for him to reply, as if wrapping his mind around who it could be before her statement hit its mark. "…Oh!" he perked up over the line, sounding suddenly brighter and more sure of himself. "Hello, Bulma. You sound really different over the phone… We're doing okay. Dad and I have been training with Piccolo, but the a few weeks ago we did take a short break. Mom made them both go to that driving school up in Central city, but neither of them actually got their licence, so… you can guess how well that went down…"

The Heiress blinked, almost entirely forgetting about the matter at hand. "What? Driving school? …Why?" she squinted with a light shake of her head—sometimes, she just didn't understand Chichi at all. "I've told her before, if she needs a lift into the city, I'd come and pick her up… I mean, come on, even if your dad  _did_  drive, I wouldn't trust him enough to get in… why she'd send Piccolo too is just…. never mind."

As if the boy was simply used to accepting these things, he gave a carefree laugh on the other end. "Yeah, she was pretty upset about it. But Dad promised he'd try again soon when we have the money… he'll probably have to go to South city for it now, though." He paused, and when he spoke again, it wasn't filled with much confidence for Goku's success. "…He wasn't…  _that_  bad… but at least he got some practice in, right?"

Bulma couldn't help but snicker at the thought, wondering if the driving school was even still intact. "…Sure, Gohan. I bet he'll do fine." She lied benignly, smiling to herself. "He sure doesn't give up easily, does he?"

"He's just doing it to make mom happy." He trailed off a little, somewhat awkward as the conversation died down, and Gohan fell back into habit. "Er, speaking of mom… she's a little busy doing the dishes right now, but… did you want me to get her for you? I mean, it is about time for her halfway break, anyway…"

Reluctant to remember the reason she'd called at all, Bulma hid her sigh from the receiver, taking fingers to a wayward lock of blue and toying with it for comfort. "…Well, actually Gohan… I was hoping to get a hold of your dad. Is Goku around, or…?" she held her breath nervously, biting her bottom lip. She really didn't want this conversation to happen, but she just didn't know what else to do, just in case things went awry.

Goku was the only one on Earth that could move Vegeta if he had to.

"Oh, really? Er, well… yeah, he is here, but… hold on, I think he's having a bath outside. I'll get him for you, if you want-"

In the background, Bulma heard Chichi's voice yelling out from the kitchen, faint and muffled over the line. "Gohan! Who's that on the phone? …It's nearly eight o'clock, who would ring at a time like this? Honestly, some people have no manners…"

Having set the phone down, the heiress heard the boy explain, sounding slightly flustered as he was put on the spot. "Mom, shh! The people on the other side can hear you when you're yelling like that! It's just Bulma, she wants to talk to dad about somethi-"

"Bulma? What would she be ringing Goku for at  _this_  hour?" in the background, still distant, she heard the mood change, and the heiress swallowed for how obvious it seemed. "Oh  _no_ , I'll bet it's that Vegeta! Ugh! I knew it; I _knew_  he'd be trouble, right from the moment she invited him to live there!"

Pinching the bridge of her nose and holding her silence, Bulma ignored the other woman's opinion as best she could. Chichi began to go off on her own tirade, a screen door closing amidst the noise as Gohan went to fetch his father while trying to soothe his mother on the way. Though she wasn't entirely sure, it sounded as if a dish had broken as well, hard for the heiress to even hear it shatter as the housewife drowned it out with a biased string of verbalised thoughts.  _Dropping plates from her high horse; yeah, that sounds like Chichi, all right…_

Waiting patiently for Goku's voice, blue eyes turned toward the glass of her sliding door, peering out over the balcony and searching the early stars. Her feet moved of their own accord, and feeling the harsh sting of judgement already from the way Chichi had snapped to and guessed the problem right away, the nightly chill didn't really do much to disturb her beside it. Bare feet padded softly over her balcony tile, phone dutifully cradled to her ear as Bulma leaned an elbow on the balustrade, tracing the outline of the gravity capsule in the darkness.

Vegeta hadn't left it since their altercation, so at the very least, she knew right where to find him… despite everything, though, somehow that saddened her. What must he be doing in there, with nothing else to his name but his regime of training? Did he soldier on stubbornly without the gravity anyway, relying on old fashioned push ups and a kata or two? Or did he just sit alone in the darkness, waiting for her to restore what he'd lost? Was it both; was it neither? Did he just stew in his thoughts and rage until it festered, turning into that flash of malice she'd seen in him today? When that notion swept her, she couldn't help but recall how very empty his eyes looked this morning, as if the fires that kept him alive had been doused by the fact that he was forced to be idle.

Pulling her back from her reverie, though, she heard movement on the line, a shuffle and a laugh as some comment Chichi made in the background was deflected. Bulma's ears twitched with the want to hear him, and she wasn't disappointed when she did, greeted by a happy tone that betrayed a smile—that lopsided grin she adored on him, in fact. She'd know it anywhere.

"Hey, Bulma! What's going on? It's not like you to ring me like this, I gotta say, I'm a little surprised!" he chuckled whimsically, and she heard a noise like a dog shaking water off its back, amused with the image it conjured.

"Goku, I'm the only one of us who  _ever_  rings…" she shot back playfully, though her good mood as notably subdued. Her smile was weak as her gaze flickered over the ship below, but the longer she stared, the more it began to fade. "It's good to hear you're all doing well, anyway… Gohan told me about your escapades in driving school, you oaf. Just so you know, I'm never getting in any vehicle with you again." She laughed a little, but her heart wasn't really in it; with hesitation on the other side, she could tell Goku had picked up on that already. Sounding slightly more morose, she grimaced. "You sound good, Goku. I've missed hearing your voice… I only got to see you once since you got back from Namek… and since your brother came, before that."

His tone seemed to change so fluidly, it was like he'd matured fifty years in twenty seconds—she was right, a few years had gone by without really seeing each other, but to Goku it only felt like a few months. "Yeah…? I guess it really has been a long time… I wish I could say you sounded the same." It was offered lightly, the friendly vigour doused a little to become gentle and concerned, and she could imagine the slight furrowing of brows turning his happy face into a more serious one. "Is there something wrong, Bulma? You sound pretty worn out…" he trailed off slowly, waiting intently on the answer.

"Oh, Goku, you have  _no_  idea…" she sighed heavily, letting her head fall forward into her hand and rubbing her forehead lightly. It was so great just to have somebody to listen—sure, her mother was always there and supportive, but the blonde had a nasty habit of getting distracted or off topic, not to mention interrupting, and sometimes these things just went over Pansy's head entirely. "I've had a pretty rough time lately… I've been run off my feet, in between all this work and the new vehicle line for dad, plus keeping up with the gravity chamber, but… This last week has just really done my head in."

Closing her eyes tiredly, she lulled in the comforting swirls of colour to be found there, drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly. "I broke it off with Yamcha, first of all. I know it was pretty hard on the both of us, and I haven't had the guts to see or call him since, but it's final this time… There's no going back now, we're just too far past it. I'm sorry about that Goku, I know you were probably hoping we'd get married before the androids appeared, just in case…" she grimaced ruefully, trying not to think about the worst case scenario.

Surprisingly though, and with slightly inopportune timing, Goku seemed to brighten back to his usual cheeriness. With a loud laugh that she swore was a strange mixture of shock and excitement, if not some slight nervousness, her old friend chorused back with disconcerting optimism. "Wow, already? O-oh, I mean… Well, sorry to hear about it, Bulma, but… Hey, you know, it's all for the best! You just gotta keep on moving forward sometimes, even if it seems bad, because you just won't find something better until you try something new, right?" he chuckled again, more to himself this time, and it seemed suspiciously like the one he used to make when holding in secrets.

Whatever it was, he sounded almost  _eager_ , as if her ending things with Yamcha were a good thing or to be expected.

Unable to make sense of his reaction, the heiress shook her head, drawing the phone away and blinking at it strangely before placing it back to her ear. With and incredulous squint, Bulma looked up at the stars again, wondering if this was another of those 'being an alien' moments. "Goku, you're supposed to be surprised and  _empathetic_ , not encouraging about it! Two of your best friends just broke up and are going through a rough time of it! That's hardly a call for laughter!" she chastised patiently, frowning to herself and bemused by it all.

She found offence at something then, huffing as it snuck up on her. "…And what do you mean ' _already'_?! What is there a betting pool I should know about or something?"

Curbing his enthusiasm quickly, an awkward noise hitched in his throat as Goku thought quickly on how to cover it—he never was very good at keeping secrets, but she just wasn't ready for this one yet. "N-no, no! Nothing like that, Bulma, uh…! Just… I just had… a… feeling?" another nervous laugh as he hoped the poor reasoning would be enough, but as she returned him with a tense silence, the Warrior was quick to rectify it further. "I mean… you and Yamcha have broken up before and, well… You're not exactly getting any younger or anything…"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" the line crackled with the force of it as Bulma glared at the phone, holding it in front of her with a grip that demanded answers.

"Nothing!" he said it so quickly it was nearly a squeak, wincing for it on the other end and pulling an evasive face. Settling a little, Goku gave a defeated sigh, knowing that he's have to tell her something—maybe not the whole truth, but he could certainly imply part of it. "Look, I don't know how to explain it, but really Bulma, I just  _feel_  like… you know… maybe Yamcha wasn't  _really_  going to end up… being the one you have a  _family_  with. You should just keep your mind open, take things one day at a time, and before you know it you'll have a healthy bab—uh… balance… in your life." Though she couldn't see it, Bulma could sense him grinning.

Rolling her eyes, she couldn't help the smirk that flirted with her lips, and secretly she was grateful for his support—even if it was a little weirdly delivered. If Goku of all people could see that she and Yamcha were going down different roads, then she could rest assured she'd made the right choice. Oddly enough, she trusted Goku's judgement on most things, despite how naïve he could often seem. He had a knack for making the right call on little more than gut instinct, and when she thought about it, it made a lot of sense as to how he could manage to turn most fights around if ever the opponent gained the upper hand. He was just one of those lucky guys with a good sense of where everything should be at any given time, like a hidden wisdom in his simplicity.

"…Thanks Goku, that actually does help." She offered softly, her gaze wandering down to the gravity capsule once more, eyeing it warily and fighting back that feeling of disappointment. "But, honestly… That's not the reason I called. I think I might need your help with something… well, some _one_." It was careful, low and serious as Bulma steeled herself for the plunge, biting her thumbnail once again to form his name around it. "…It's Vegeta. I need him to leave."

On the other side of the line though, she heard Goku physically stumble, taken aback by what she'd said—sure, she expected he would be a little surprised, but Bulma didn't understand it at all when she thought she heard a sliver of panic to his tone.

"W-what!? Why? I mean, sure Bulma, I know Vegeta can be a little hard to deal with… but come on; he's not all  _that_  bad, right? Give him a chance…? I bet you and him would get on like a house for hire, if you'd both just talk it out..." it was marginally close to pleading, careful enough not to annoy her but definitely an attempt to persuade her lenience. "Besides, you know he doesn't have anywhere else to go. I'd put him up and all, but Chichi… well, Piccolo has it hard enough just  _training_  with us around here, I don't even wanna think about if Vegeta came…"

"It's 'house  _on fire_ ', Goku."

"Huh? …Well that doesn't make sense, why would a burning house be good?"

Just about ready to give up, the heiress hung her head listlessly, giving a tired sigh and deciding to just put it all out there. "Look, I know all that, Goku, I do… But I've made up my mind already, and he can't stay here. I'm at the end of my rope… first Yamcha, then Vegeta, and the androids in a couple of years… me, sitting in the middle of it all, thinking about everything all the time and wondering if it'll all still be here when the smoke clears or if I've thrown away the last happiness I'll ever see! I can't do it, Goku… I just  _can't_ , okay? I'm done!" tensing up defensively while she said it, all of her fluster left her once she'd gotten it out, and despite herself, she felt a deep sense of despair tug at her heart.

"Bulma, you just have to give him some time—"

"No, I'm sorry, but Vegeta can't be here anymore. Not if he's going to be like this… I  _tried_ , Goku, I  _really_  did—I've done everything for him; clothed him, fed him, given him a roof over his head… I've tried talking to him, I've tried staying out of his way… we've argued and I've  _still_  run around after him, even though I was mad as hell. He never thanked me for it, or even apologise for starting a fight. I  _always_  apologise if I accidentally offend him, and yet he goes out of his way to offend  _me_. I've  _been_  patient and  _tried_  giving him time. I try to be understanding; make exceptions for him, put people I care about to one side in  _favour_  of him! I've poured blood, sweat and tears into keeping the gravity chamber up to par with where he needs it, paying for most of it with my own profits and still having to pick up the slack on the side to be ready for this year's new vehicle line! All of the money  _I_ earn out of that will probably go to fund  _his_  training, as well! I've even saved his  _life_ , Goku!"

By the end of it she was close to tearing up, letting all of her pent up frustration bubble to the surface as her throat tightened further around every word, sending her pitch slowly higher. "I don't know what else I can do. I've tried everything, and he just throws it in my face like he can't stand the sight of me. He's blown a hole in the ship and blamed me for it, and after I spent the next day in my room a total mess, he's sneaking around in my room and spying on me in the night to make sure I'm still doing what  _he_  wants! He set an alarm for me to wake up to, with no respect for my privacy or my feelings, and when I got up and had a go at him for it this morning, I end up getting thrown to the ground in between an outright attack on my character! Every nice thing I do gets rebuffed, and I can't keep taking the blows, Goku, I just can't. I've been trying hard not to let him get to me, thinking that's just how he is, but today was the last straw. It  _is_  personal, and I need him gone!"

Holding back a reflexive sob as her throat began to sting, the Heiress blinked back her tears and took a moment to breathe, listening desperately for Goku on the other end and feeling her heart crack when there was only silence there. Did he not believe her? Did he not care, or he just overwhelmed by how upset she'd gotten over it? She hadn't intended on getting emotional about it, but Bulma simply couldn't help it. She was drowning in the torrents, here, tossed about by too many things weighing on her at once.

Looking at the receiver hopelessly, she sniffled some, desperate to hear him say something, anything, in response. "…Goku?"

A sudden rush of warm air licked at her skin from behind, fleeting with a static tingle of energy about it that seemed to settle in the roots of her hair. She jumped a little, blinking for not expecting the odd sensation, but as she whipped her head around to see her old friend standing there and pulling two fingers away from his brow, some of that loneliness and despair washed away. As Bulma turned on her heel to face him in full, setting the phone down on the balcony's edge slowly, a weak smile returned with a comforting sense of relief to settle her. One hand drifted to hold her towel in place as she drank in the sight of him, from the look of concentration left on his face to the sodden spikes of his hair—she realised now why he hadn't answered her on the phone. Fresh out of a bath himself, he'd had to take a moment to find and put on some pants, made obvious for the fact she could still see drips of water over his bare chest.

Letting his hand fall away from his forehead, he would settle it then on her shoulder calmly, taking a moment to look her over and noting how tired and run down she seemed. Goku was quick to offer her a smile, a gentle thing laced with all the concern of a brother, still happy to see her though subdued for her plight.

"Hey, come on. Don't sell yourself short, Bulma… We both know you're a lot tougher than you look." He tilted his head a little, perking a brow as the private and lopsided smile held. "You're going to be just fine, all of us are. The future isn't going to be anywhere near like he said it would be, and we're all working hard to make sure of that, even you. I know it's tough, but everything's going to be okay... You'll see."

It was hard not to believe him when he spoke like that, so quietly sure with a knowing gleam in his eye; full of life and the modest confidence that things would always turn out for the better… and to his credit, he was usually right. Even if he had to fix it himself, the warrior could always turn a bad situation into a happier one. When Goku was around, Bulma naturally felt safer, as if the world made just a little more sense to live in. Staring up at him with a weary smile, blue eyes wavered over his features grateful that she'd called—it was like even the sight of him was enough to give her back some hope.

"…I hope so." She conceded softly, her gaze dropping to her feet a moment. "But right now, I just can't handle it, whether it'll all turn out in the end or not… two and a half more years of feeling like this? I need a break from it, Goku… I almost can't believe I waited until this point to end things between me and Yamcha, but I just had to do it. I couldn't keep dragging it out, just because we might… especially if we might be… well, you know… dead." She took a shaky breath then, filling her lungs with the cold night air and giving a slight shiver for it. "You're right, the future isn't going to be like that kid said, but I guess I still worry. I mean… anything could happen now. Something totally unexpected could come up that changes everything, and we might do even worse this time around. It's just that climb of not knowing, and getting closer to that unknown every day… it's just about doing my head in, Goku, let alone Vegeta making things worse than they have to be."

He took it in with a nod, trying to understand where she was coming from—though he wouldn't bring it up with her now, the truth was, Goku really didn't know how to make her feel any better about the upcoming battle. There wasn't all that much more he could do than offer reassuring words and encouragements, hoping they might distract her away from the fear and uncertainty she was haunted by.  _He_  was looking forward to fighting the androids, and even with the looming threat of dying early from the heart virus, his optimism hadn't dimmed. Trunks had given him the vaccine either way, and he felt fit as a fiddle; he hadn't gotten so much as a cold in years. Not to mention he had made some excellent strides in the last few months, as had Gohan. Even from here, he could sense Vegeta's growing strength as well, and he was certainly impressed by the Prince's progress so far—when he stopped to imagine what everyone would be like when the three years were up, frankly, Goku couldn't wait to see May twelfth arrive.

He knew Bulma did not share his enthusiasm, having wanted to avoid the whole thing by using the dragonballs to prevent it. Still, there were a few things that needed to happen for everything to be going smoothly, and unfortunately Trunks' birth was one of them, which meant Vegeta had to be living at the compound…

But as Goku's lively gaze took in the sight of Bulma's bruising, able to see them clearly enough though she probably thought they were hidden by the darkness, he knew he had to intervene. He wasn't really sure about how exactly these two were going to get together, but it was clear to him that  _this_  was headed in the opposite direction, and more than that, he didn't like hearing of Vegeta's behaviour toward his friend. She didn't deserve it at the worst of times, let alone when she was going to be the mother of his child not too long from now.

_Maybe Trunks' coming back changed a couple of things he didn't expect? After all, I guess in the future, Bulma and Vegeta never knew the androids were coming; none of us did… chances are, she probably wouldn't have been as stressed out in that timeline as she is now, since she knows what could happen if we don't do enough to prepare. Vegeta too, that's right! He was told he was going to die as well, wasn't he? Well, that explains why he'd be even more unfriendly than usual…he's probably just scared of wasting any time._

Whatever the case, he had to push this in the right direction again… and the key to it lay with Vegeta.  _Once he loosens up a bit, Bulma will follow suit and everything else will fall into place, too._

With a light nod to himself, Goku let his hand fall away from her shoulder, crossing his arms and tapping a finger to his chin thoughtfully as he studied the gravity capsule from afar. "Listen, Bulma… I know Vegeta isn't exactly the easiest guy to manage, but if anybody can, it's you. You're right, how he's been treating you is out of bounds and you've got every right to be angry. I am sorry he's been giving you such a rough ride… but there  _is_ something better in him. I've seen it. He might like to pretend he's made of stone, and sure, he's an impossible kind of guy, but that's not  _all_  there is to him." He frowned lightly, glancing at her with a serious air. "I'll go and talk to him. Give him one last chance, Bulma, and then if you still can't stand him he can stay at my house."

As he saw her gorgeous features falter back into the unsure frown, incredulous of him, he lightened some to scratch the back of his head and offered Bulma a guilty grin. "…Chichi won't like it, and I can't guarantee Vegeta will take the invitation… but I guess if it really keeps being that bad, you can lend him a capsule house and we'll figure something out; promise! Just let me see if I can sort him out first." He gave a pleading look, bringing his hands up before him in a begging motion. "We really are gonna need him to be at his best, and whether he likes it or not, for that to happen he needs your help, Bulma. I'll bet it's just a pride thing, you know, and I'm pretty sure Vegeta'll come around with a little bit of a push… Please?"

Listening to Goku try to assuage her decision, the heiress couldn't help but bite the inside of her cheek, knowing he'd be disappointed if she held firm. It was nice to know that, though he really was pulling for her and Vegeta to work through these issues coming up, he had also offered the option of taking the Saiyan on himself if things kept going awry. She couldn't deny that he was right, though she was loathe to admit it at present—she had said so herself when fighting the Prince earlier, holding it over him that her aid and work would be the key to his unlocking the Super Saiyan power he sought. Without the gravity machine and her to keep it up to speed for him, Vegeta would soon flounder in his struggles to push his limits, without the means for a challenge to do so, and surely stagnate in a slow uphill battle. She knew there was no way he'd join the others to spar. The Prince was resolute in his creed to train alone, and having attempted to watch him in the past—worried for his health—Bulma knew how uncomfortable Vegeta was having others witness his techniques before he had them just right.

The Prince's regime was very much trial and error; the tempered stains of a perfectionist at work, who swept his failures under the rug never to be seen and presented only the clean and polished product of his labours to the public eye.

In that respect, he was not unlike herself, when it came to her work for the corporation—Bulma's lab was her haven, and those that entered it were as carefully chosen as the disciples of the holiest temple on Earth.

Placing hands to her sides as if to ward of a stiff back, blue eyes wavered over her old friend with reluctant trust, and Bulma knew she couldn't deny him. If Goku really could put Vegeta back in his place enough that she saw a notable change in his attitude, then she supposed the least she could do was put up with him for just a little while longer… if only as a strict favour to Goku. Inclining her chin low, lips pulled into a thin line of resignation, Bulma drew a slow breath through her nose as she eyes her old companion seriously.

"…One more bruise, Goku, and he's gone. I don't care whether he means it or not, even if I provoked him, he needs to have more restraint than that. I won't live with him if I know he can't control his own strength when he snaps." With a frustrated sigh, she shook her head, turning away from her friend to look down at the ship below. "I can understand him shoving me back, if I'm really going to be honest with myself about what happened, but lately he's been making a bit of a habit about laying hands on me. Sure, it's just little things, like grabbing my wrist or getting up in my face, but when he threw me down it was different… I don't think he meant to put that much force into it. An accident on Vegeta's part could mean the death of somebody, and I won't stand for it in my home."

"If he can reign in his temper and get a little respect, we'll be golden. I know he's got good in him, Goku, but he needs to start showing it. I can't keep looking the other way when we both know damn well how dangerous he could be if he wanted to, especially when he  _does_  become a Super Saiyan." Glancing back over her shoulder, the look on Goku's face spoke volumes—he knew she was right, accepting it all with a slightly sorry grace and resolute in adjusting the Prince's behaviour as well. "…I don't want to have helped him become the next threat, when the androids are gone and he decides to go after you next."

"…I know, Bulma." He conceded quietly, holding her gaze with a perceptive frown. He was more than aware of Vegeta's promises to finish the battle they had started here, but with the threats they faced, it was just something they had to put aside for now. Goku was between a rock and a hard place when it came to the Prince, surely, but for the moment he had no other choice—they needed all the help they could get, every one of them, and he could only try to sway Vegeta away from his vindictive grudge one act at a time. "But we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I'm hoping he'll come around before that point… but even if he doesn't, his grudge against me should never concern how he treats  _you_."

As he said it, his feet began to lift off of the balcony tile to see him float in the air behind her, intent on going down to see the surly Saiyan and turn this around while he still could. "Go and get some rest, Bulma. He's not happy to see me at the best of times, so I think it's best if I'm in and out quickly… if over the next week, he's still causing trouble, gimme a call and I'll be back in a flash." Floating over the balustrade and out into the night air, he sent her one last smile, saluting her casually as he went. "…It was good to see you again."

"Thanks, Goku." She smiled back tiredly, giving a light nod and watching as her old friend descended down into the darkness enshrouding the Prince's lair.

… _And good luck._


	7. Breaking Ranks

Through the gaping hole left in the gravity capsule's door, the sounds of the evening drifted softly; a lonely thing graced by the rustle of trees and the breath of crickets, whispering of vulnerability and leaving the Prince open to the nightly chill…

And any visitor that decided to step through it.

Vegeta was already well aware of Goku's presence before the Warrior appeared at his door. Having sensed his low class expatriate appear suddenly with little warning, the Prince had resigned himself to waiting for him. He took to sitting in the darkness, away from the door with his back to the centre console, leaning against it in cold apathy and knowing the other Saiyan would join him soon enough.

Their ki told him enough; the little harpy and him. A sharp dive in Bulma's mood had been obvious from the moment he'd cast her off of him, the annoying whine of her spirit faintly ringing in his bones to entertain a sense of frustration, mingled upon sadness and anxiety. It was all too easy for him to track the Woman's emotions, wearing them on her sleeve as she did, with no concept as to how she might steady her energy and hide them. Vegeta did not need to spy, nor eavesdrop on her phone call, to know that she was the one to bring Kakarot here. Her distress was tangible as it spiked not minutes before, dropping off sharply the moment her old friend had joined her. From that point onward, Vegeta had lost track of the Earth Woman's ki entirely, squashed as it was under the deep thrum of her lapdog, no doubt come to the rescue in an effort to placate her tantrum.

Floating casually in through the warped metal opening and setting bare feet upon the cold tile, a few silently padded steps inward saw the Earth-raised Saiyan make his uninvited entrance.

Picking up the fresh scent of the other Saiyan behind him easily as it filled the air, the Prince could guess he'd be readily chastised for obviously upsetting the Heiress, offended by the smell of him as it invaded the comforting musk his own toils had left here. He could practically  _taste_  Kakarot's tension as the Warrior gave off a prelude of what was to come in waves—a firm sense of conviction, subtle anger and most sickening of all,  _concern_.

Refusing to look back at him, a calm tone slithered low to the Prince's ear as Goku spoke behind him, his gaze burning holes in the back of Vegeta's head. "…It's been a while, Vegeta. You're already a lot stronger than I'd expected you to be by now." It was so curtly given it almost pained one to hear it; the tiny spring of a leak before a dam burst and washed all else away. "I can tell you've improved way beyond what you were on Namek."

Vegeta recognised the timbre in his voice, the self same one Kakarot often used in battle, when underestimated or unimpressed with his opponent's conduct.

"Save it, Kakarot." He hissed back with venom, sneering to himself bitterly in the darkness and unwilling to even take in the sight of his rival, staring ahead to the port window instead and focussing upon the dim stars. "We both know you're leaps and bounds ahead of me. If it's all the same, I'll do without your conciliatory regards of  _sportsmanship_." Leaning elbows upon his knees, the Prince's fists tightened silently, reining back his offence for such careless coaxing—it appeared the idiot still held firm to his hopes of camaraderie.

 _Just like the Woman,_ he thought then, scoffing for it privately;  _neither of them can take the hint and just leave well enough alone._

Deciding to maintain some distance between them for the surly sovereign's sake, Goku shifted with a sigh, tucking a thumb into the hem of his track pants and glancing over what he could see of the Saiyan from behind the console. Vegeta was as difficult as ever, he supposed, almost having forgotten how blunt the man could be—it was little wonder Bulma had reached her limits with him. The Heiress wasn't all that patient to begin with, and secretly, Goku marvelled at how much her character had improved with age. She'd taken more in stride from Vegeta than he'd ever seen her put up with before, and the warrior had a new found respect for his old friend in that. But then, he supposed, she was used to swallowing a few hardships when it came to men, and almost sad for it Goku knew that Yamcha's flirtatious behaviour had a lot to do with her maturing temperance.

Hardening from the slightly boyish charm his features usually held, a light frown betrayed the business at hand as Goku gave an uncaring roll of his shoulders. "Alright, Vegeta, have it your way… I'll get straight to the point." Inclining his head toward the Prince slowly, it was very faint, but a sliver of anger slipped into his tone with warning. "What exactly happened here today?"

Vegeta didn't miss it either, though it brought a cynical curve to his lips—Kakarot was in no mood to be dismissed without answers. At that, his head finally turned, a sidelong glance sent across the way to meet the Warrior's gaze evenly; perhaps even daringly. "So you  _are_  here to rescue the damsel in distress... how noble of you." He sniped back, the barest hint of a chuckle rumbling from his throat as he shifted, moving slowly to stand and lifting himself up from the console. Toned arms crossed casually over his chest, hiding a few scars as bare hands all but vanished from sight.

Expecting as much, Goku held his ground firmly, the lightest grimace ghosting across his mouth. Remarkably though, as his eyes narrowed upon the Prince's visage in the darkness, they seemed dulled and without their usual warmth. A strangely belligerent cock of his head was given to his supposed superior, and in that moment perhaps, the pair truly were two Saiyans facing each other down as the air thickened around them with tension.

"She's my friend, Vegeta. I don't like seeing her upset at the best of times…" Goku offered it slowly, a simple truth shared quietly between them, though when he continued, a note of spite twisted it into something else entirely. "…and I  _definitely_  don't like the bruises  _you_  left on her." He saw the Prince's eyes widen a fraction for it, and Goku chanced a low growl, chasing down the reaction he wanted. "I was under the impression you were _better_  than that… you might be a lot of bad things, Vegeta, but I never pegged you for a  _liar_."

It shot through the space between them like a flaming arrow, heated and precisely aimed to draw the Prince out of his evasion and into defence—Goku was not one to be bitter or taunt others in anger, but he knew well where Vegeta's triggers were. One did not insult his heritage or his ranking, or call negative attention to either his height or his strength, and certainly not his lost tail without instigating his ire…

But the Prince's sense of honour was a strange and flexible thing when backed into a corner by pride, and Goku intended on taking full advantage of it.

"What was that!?" the Saiyan snapped fiercely, affronted by such a statement, least of all from Kakarot himself. It was certainly no mild accusation, in the face of his agreement with the Woman… perhaps, within himself, he could admit that he did bend it some when casting her aside, but he knew for a fact that it held. He'd brought no harm to her other than a bump on the arse, and seeing as it was a response to  _her_ pathetic attempt to be violent, she should be counting her lucky stars that it was all she endured.

The very audacity that she or Kakarot had, to call his honour into question over something so ridiculously trivial, left him furious. Wide eyed with a hateful glare, his arms were quick to his sides, fists shaking with the want to smack the very words from the Warrior's mouth as he roared back.

"I  _ **barely**_  touched her, you insipid charlatan! How  _dare_  you try to spit that at me; she was the one trying to strike  _me,_ she should be grateful to  _know_  such clemency! I suppose you'll next be telling me that I'm to simply accept it, and let her have a free slap every once in a while in generosity!?"

Tensing up at the sight of such aggression, Goku took a step forward, thrusting out a hand and gesturing with some authority to yell—he knew this could quickly turn into blows.

"Cool it, Vegeta!" he returned firmly, his volume rising to match that of the Prince, a strange scowl darkening his features in turn. "The deal was  _ **not**_  to touch her  _at all_ , if you really wanna play it that way! You can't keep creeping over these lines!  _Don't_  grab her by the wrists,  _don't_  push her out of your way,  _don't_  invade her personal space and  _don't_  keep making these threats when you've sworn you wouldn't hurt her! You can't just keep running her down like this, Vegeta, all she wants to do is help you!"

"She doesn't want to help me; she wants to  _control_  me, just like she does the rest of you spineless  _ **idiots**_!" Like a shockwave built of his fury, a swirl of ki flared about tanned skin and rushed outward with the volume of it, bringing hair to stand on end with a static tingle and rattling the port windows with the force.

"You're a  _disgrace_ , Kakarot! Ordered about by a woman whose power level couldn't be more than  _five_ …! She's nothing but a spoiled and disrespectful  _sow_ , requiring the worship of everyone around her without doing a damned thing to earn it for her self! Look at you; come running to her beck and call like some miserable errand boy, conned by a few tears into fighting her battles  _for_  her! Have you no shame at all?! She's no better than a Tuffle, using us Saiyans for their hard labours and thinking nothing more of us than slaves and pets, too primitive to survive without the  _grace_  of their technology! I  _won't_  have it, damn you, I bow to  _ **no**_   _ **one**_!"

Taken aback to see the Prince so incensed—over what seemed like just sticking up for a friend—so much so that a burst of his own energy escaped his control, gave Goku pause. He might not have any idea what a Tuffle really was, though he was certain he'd heard it mentioned before—King Kai sounded about right for it, and in the back of Goku's mind he vaguely recalled that a war between Tuffles and Saiyans apparently took place before he was born. Whatever the case, the Prince didn't care for them and it sounded as if he was justified in his sour opinion… but for some reason he seemed to be drawing rather vindictive parallels between the Bulma and this old enemy race. Loathe as he was to admit it, in a startling turn, the Heiress seemed to be spot on the money when she'd worried for the danger posed by her houseguest. This kind of slipped ki control wasn't like Vegeta at all, and forced to step back when the brunt of energy had hit him, the Warrior could only stare in concern for it as he realised how bad a risk the Prince had actually become.

Vegeta had  _certainly_  gotten stronger. His progress was almost surprising, but it was all too clear why—as Goku remembered where they stood—the meticulous technique and energy management Vegeta usually commanded wasn't there to back it up… in such a hurry to attain his new strength as he pushed himself in the gravity, the Prince was going for broke and gaining raw power too quickly. Suddenly getting far more return for his efforts than ever before, he had not yet acclimatised to it, and probably didn't even realise how much might he'd gained. It was also very likely that he'd been neglecting his mental exercise in favour of physical, making it even harder to temper his new strength and conversely, much easier to misjudge it. It was making more sense now—Bulma somehow knew it already, but Vegeta hadn't yet realised just how much stronger he was swiftly becoming, and as Goku knew very well, one's feel for levels of restraint were based on trial, error and habit-forming.

Vegeta would've had no idea how hard he'd actually thrown her, and for that, Goku had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

As the Prince snarled the last of it, the spikes of his hair bristling and his hackles raised near ready to launch himself at the other warrior, Goku seemed to soften, drawing back to tuck hands in his pockets in a point of dismissing any violence to come. A long sigh left him, rolling slowly from his lips as the Saiyan shook his head, closing his eyes to the scowling image of Vegeta and taking on a surprisingly fatherly tone. "Listen, Vegeta, I don't know about all that Tuffle stuff, but whatever it is, you've got to let it go."

"Tch… No, of course  _you_  wouldn't…" allowing his rage to devolve back into its poisonous spite, Vegeta visibly relaxed some, though kept sharp teeth bared toward his rival to mutter sneeringly. "Only a  _true_  Saiyan would remember such a thing… the mightiest warriors in the Galaxy, and yet it seems somebody is always trying to rule us. No sooner had my Father freed us of one tyranny did the Arcosians deliver us another…. Never again. I won't be ordered about like a child; not by you, not by the Namek, not by that punk from the future and  _especially_  not by the Woman!"

"Why do you have to be like that!?" the Warrior cried in a fit of pique, gritting his teeth in frustration for how stubborn the Prince could be and raising his shoulders defensively.

With a flash of an old and unabated hatred that both men knew to be well justified, Vegeta would level a calloused finger toward his rival, a deathly hiss seething out of him. "Mark me, Kakarot. I spent my entire life under Frieza's heel, only to have  _my_  rightful vengeance snatched away from me by a tail-less, Earthbound low class—with no more idea of his origins than a rock thrown into a riverbed—whose pitiful sense of mercy  _not only_  led to an  _unfinished_  job, but the mockery of our race's most respected and feared form!" distain tainting his regal features to twist them into something feral and wild, he withdrew his hand sharply, lifting his head high as if weathering a great insult. "I will  _ **not**_ come away from that a whipping boy to some overly pampered, blue haired  _tramp_  who can't even summon the enthusiasm to clean her damned room!"

Largely unaffected by the belittling of his own claim to such heritage, Goku stifled a pained grimace to settle the Prince with a patient though weary look, groaning in the back of his throat. He toyed with the thought of bringing up the Prince's final wish that a Saiyan defeat Frieza, but tucked it back into the less used and dark corner of his head—a part of him sincerely regretted not finishing off the tyrant, especially when he had promised Vegeta that much, but there was simply no helping that now.

He had empathy enough to understand where the Prince was coming from, certainly, left without a satisfying sense of closure. Goku could recall the sense of loss at Krillin's death clearly, and that awful snapping point of wanting so badly to take revenge for it—he could only imagine how much more Vegeta must feel of that, having lost all that he had ever held important. Pride was, indeed, the only thing that remained for him to inherit, alongside the hope that one day he would become a Super Saiyan; Goku had already wounded his pride. It was only natural that Vegeta would feel compelled to take Super Saiyan back.

The both of them knew that he was meant to die there on Namek, basically ripped from the grave on a technicality, and if Goku could do nothing else, he would endure Vegeta's grudge for the simple fact that the man needed something to transfer his hatred onto until it dissipated with time. The Prince could not be without something to drive him and compete against, an opponent or an oppressor to blame, a goal set and struggled to in anger and agony, for he had never known to live without it.

Goku could never let Bulma become the target of such an ill obsession, regardless of Trunks' being born.

Furrowing his brows disapprovingly, the Warrior tightened his fists to grip the sides of his track pants, subtly releasing some of his stress there. "Well, whatever you  _think_ , the fact is Bulma doesn't 'require' anything from you other than a 'thank you' here and there. She's not trying to make a slave out of you, or lord anything over you… she's not using you as a weapon to fight the androids on her behalf, either, so give it a break, Vegeta. The truth is she'd be more comfortable  _not_  letting you use her equipment at all, because she's terrified that once the androids are gone, you'll turn around and become the next big threat."

 _Perceptive little gnat, when the mood strikes her,_ Vegeta mused internally, unsurprised—then again, he had fed her so many threats that way inclined, the Woman probably assumed it was a given thing; his destroying the Androids only to replace them. Indeed, at the very least, he had every intention of going after Kakarot when that time came… whether the others were foolish enough to step in and get themselves killed was none of his concern.

Still, he was slightly incredulous of the claim that she was 'terrified'—because who in their right mind, when scared of somebody, comes storming into their room screeching like a banshee and then tries to hit them?

If Bulma had one redeemable feature the Prince had noticed, it was courage.

Vegeta would scoff distastefully, turning his head away in some disgust for his statement and waving a dismissive hand. "Yes, because Frieza descending upon this rock with the intention to kill everything on it had her running for the hills." He spat sarcastically, not fond of the irony as his arms folded themselves over his chest once more. "If she were fearful of me in the slightest, she'd have sewn her lips shut by now, knowing what's good for her… and let's not forget that she  _did_ attempt to strike me today. It's all part of her games, but unfortunately for her, the one that wins is the one that hits the hardest. She'd have been begging to be  _rid_  of me if she held to such trepidations, truly, instead of sending around one of her sycophants to try and get me to play nicely. Too bad I'm in no mood to let her win."

"She  _is_  begging to be rid of you." He could stand no more of it; holding it in as Vegeta continued to berate and deride, and suddenly coming out with it, Goku watched the Prince's form seize. It was subtle, but with his keen eyes in the darkness, he caught it anyway—stillness took him over, frozen in place as if royal blood ran cold with the revelation. Softening some, Goku continued quietly, a lazy swing of his hands giving a lack lustre shrug. "That's why she called me tonight. She wanted my help in making you leave, because she didn't think you'd take her seriously and actually go if she told you to."

A strange silence settled upon them then, the truth lingering around them as a chilled breeze floated through, bringing with it the distant sounds of the rustling trees once more. It was an awkward thing, as Vegeta glanced back toward Goku with an odd sense of disbelief ghosting faintly in his eye, the lightest twitch of his brow holding back the bemusement from his scowling features. Though the Prince seemed to search him, silently demanding an answer for it, the Warrior found comforting distraction in tracing the cracks upon the tiles beneath; bare toes curling autonomously.

As the sovereign stood lost for words, questions flashing briefly across his visage and then disappearing as Vegeta's own mind answered them reluctantly, Goku modestly placed a hand on his bicep and let his fingers drum there with a withdrawn sense of conclusion. "…Look, I get it. Things obviously got heated, and you're both as feisty as ever; we've all got a lot on our plates right now, and a long way to go. You didn't  _intend_  on harming her, but the fact is you did… When I said you'd gotten stronger, I  _meant_  it, Vegeta. I know you're gaining a lot of power pretty quickly, and that's great, but you have to keep it in check."

The Prince's gaze fell away from him quickly as Vegeta turned away, taking a few absent steps as his arms crossed more tightly, like a barrier to ward off the world. Staring down at the console controls, he thought back on all he'd done thus far, and again, unwanted flashes of memory haunted him. Again he saw her face; long lashes barely hiding the darkness about her eyes from how long she'd spent awake at his bedside. He heard the metallic twang as the droids redirected his attacks back to him, an ever present hum from the gravity generator vibrating through the floor beneath. The blinding flash, and the smoke; the smell of his own burnt flesh and stale blood… sweat, twisted metal and sharp rubble slicing through even the thickest of his skin. Fumes from the thankfully empty fuel tanks as they hung heavy about the ruins with that pungent chemical scent, and the desperate worry in _her_  voice as it pierced the tainted air to find him in it.

Vegeta knew—within himself—it was his lack of control, a new well of strength unleashed too soon and too furiously in desperation, which had set off the explosion that day. It wasn't Bulma's handiwork, or her father's engineering, that were flawed. It was his own folly that had almost seen him killed. Now it seemed both Kakarot and the Woman were beginning to see the truth of why it had happened, where he had blinded himself to it in denial. He was cutting corners in his regime, a desperate bid for what he hoped would bridge the gap between himself and Super Saiyan status faster.

Of its own accord, his hand rose to brush calloused fingertips across the control panel, tracing the number pad which already had several buttons faded from how many times he had pressed them. Tilting his head slowly to one side to catch the other warrior from the corner of his eye, Vegeta steeled himself from such thoughts, schooling his features into a scowl bereft of any real emotion. Were Bulma here, she would've seen it and taken note—once again he was the shell, hollow and dulled as the fire left his gaze to let nothing through.

There were many acidic remarks he could've given then, a thousand of them whirling ready in his head like a hurricane, but not a single one of them—he thought—seemed more potent than a cold silence.

Through it all and much to his chagrin, innocent of the Prince's internal happenings yet somehow painfully aware, Goku continued on with all the semblance of an old friend passing on advice as he gestured humbly to himself. "I know how it feels… you think you've got a hold of it, and you don't realise you haven't until a glass shatters in your hand or a door comes of its hinges… or until you accidentally hurt somebody you shouldn't." he gave a weak shrug, knowing it couldn't really be helped if Vegeta did not respond, and flashed a slightly guilty look as he brought a hand up to ruffle his own spiked hair.

"She just doesn't want anybody to die, Vegeta. Not even you… but she can't take any more abuse; emotional or otherwise. I've gotten her to give you one last shot… and given this  _is_  her gravity machine," he waved a hand at there surrounds casually, looking upwards to the roof of the spherical design. "It really  _wouldn't_  kill you to be just a little bit nicer to her."

Though he endured the withering glare, cold and empty thing that it was, in the vague hope that he may have reached Vegeta enough for even a curt nod of dismissal, Goku waited a good moment or two for a response. Something,  _anything_ , a deliberate blink might have done well enough… but the hope was soon snuffed out as the Prince held his bitter reticence.

With a defeated sigh, knowing there was nothing more to say or do, the warrior relented. A private sense of pathos washed over him, as if Vegeta's eyes could suck the very life from his flesh if he remained, and quietly, Goku turned to take his leave of him. Bare feet made little noise as he made his way back toward the warped metal of the forced opening, but as he reached the threshold to lean his hand against the side, the warrior took pause, scanning the night sky above and offering one last thing with a solemn tone—he could only hope the stubborn Saiyan would listen.

"I know you've got your own way of training and all, but I'd  _really_  suggest you spend a week or so catching up on the mental side of things. You've got plenty of time to get stronger, Vegeta, but it won't mean a thing if you can't handle it properly. I shouldn't have to tell you that, and for your pride, I'm sorry… But I'm not going to be able to talk her around again. If she decides you're out, you're  _out_ … androids coming, or not."

Vegeta didn't look back when the words left him, unable to do so as a strange twist of shame clawed at his chest. "…Tell me first, Kakarot, before you leave…" Barely above a whisper, his voice almost completely lacked its gravelled timbre, a small and candid thing as it lilted between them. "…Am I even close?"

"The way you're going about it now… You'll never have it."

And with the rustling of the leaves, he was gone.


	8. Calm Before the Storm

The morning sun was warm upon her back as it shone down from a cloudless sky, uplifting as the Heiress sat on her balcony to enjoy it, taking in a well earned cigarette. The gentlest breeze swept the smoke of it away from her, languid curls lightly dancing in its wake... Blue eyes were slightly brighter for a long sleep, now matching the crisp colour of the flawless sky above, though she knew she wasn't as fresh as the lush green grass below. Still, the open air was filled with warmth and the lyrical sweetness of singing birds, holding a tender note of peace and perfection that Bulma couldn't ignore in her solitude.

It truly was a perfect day, and for that, she knew something was going to go wrong very soon. It was like the calm before a raging storm.

 _Well, let's just enjoy it while we can, Bulma,_ her mind soothed, a faint smile playing upon her lips as she thumbed through a magazine, a casual flick given toward the glass ashtray.

Scanning the pages with mild interest, she made a mental list of the clothes she liked, and was quickly deciding that sweetheart necklines were making a comeback, while pink remained out of the question this year. A sigh left her for that, dressed as she was currently in the comfort of her hideously pink nightgown, and grimacing Bulma decided against revitalising her wardrobe just yet. It wasn't like she was going anywhere, and Vegeta's upkeep sucked all the life out of any thoughts for shopping trips. If she spent any more on him, it'd start coming out of the company's money, rather than just her profits.

 _I've already had to pour my personal research funds into the droids, and now the pressure system too,_ she thought with a roll of her eyes, glancing down toward the gravity capsule with distaste.  _I might even have to start subsidising investor stock, just to keep him running…No, no I can't do that, there's no way I can guarantee any kind of returns… But maybe I can contract some of these designs out to the Royal Military?_ She was hesitant to do it, given her father's rather strict stance against the manufacture and trade of arms and munitions, but she was running out of options. Then again, it wasn't really like she'd be selling them any weaponry; they already had the original prototype defence droids on loan for training drills, anyway. The cost of the pricey Prince's needs was only going to go up over the next few years as he got stronger, and though she could juggle some affairs enough to pay for it at present, there was a good chance she'd start having to spend money that wasn't hers very soon.

 _Well, even if we take the newer droids Vegeta's using off the table, the outer plate design we got off of the Saiyan pods could pique their interest for tanks and that…_ Leaning an elbow on the table, Bulma would squint thoughtfully at the capsule ship, tapping her cigarette once more with impatience.  _The pressure system can_ _ **definitely**_ _be altered to outfit a submarine… I might have to reduce the valve size, but I could get away with only two on each vessel. After all, they'd only be withstanding oceanic stress, it's not like they'd need the extra endurance that three hundred G's takes. Plus, less power to run that way…_

A crafty smirk lined her lips then as she wrapped them around the butt, taking a long and self satisfied drag. "I'll have to squeeze for a while first, but if I can hold out until the summit next financial year, that should definitely be enough to cover us until the androids… it'll take some sweet talking, but if I can tease them with a demo, we should be alright. The navy will pay through the  _nose_  for it if I'm offering an exclusive contract."

Leaning back into her chair and letting her gaze roam the sunny sky, the Heiress would nod to herself, a private and haughty giggle for her own cleverness. "Oh, Bulma… you really  _are_  the whole package. Beauty, Brains, Brilliance and Bank Accounts…"

"Bullshit, too." came a familiar voice from behind her then, alongside the sure sound of feet setting down upon the balcony tile, soft in the descent from flight.

Bulma flinched at the sound of it, not expecting it at all, and very nearly flung herself backward to topple from her chair. Desperately clawing at the table to maintain her balance, a small sense of relief washing over her when the front legs hit the floor once again, the Heiress whipped her head back in absolute horror, suddenly feeling mortified for her appearance and simply not quite sure if she was ready to see  _him_  just yet.

Standing firm in an orange gi with a disappointed—even defeated—frown marring his scarred features, Yamcha held his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head with a sigh. "…You swore to me you'd quit smoking those filthy things, Bulma."

Framed by the wayward wisps of blue, her whole face blanched to palest white, eyes wide and body frozen at the very sight of him—for the life of her, and she damned herself for seeing such an illusion, but in that moment he set down the bandit had reminded her terribly of Vegeta. Blinking with some disbelief that it  _wasn't_ the Prince, it took her a few moments to shake the image from her mind, refocussed upon the tired sound of his voice instead. It was just a trick of the sun; it must've been in her eyes, that's all. She wasn't  _expecting_  Vegeta, by any stretch… but then, she supposed, with the timing of it, she  _had_  expected Vegeta more than Yamcha.

As a matter of fact, she hadn't seen Vegeta at all since their fight, not even after Goku had talked to him. She still had no idea what'd even become of that whole fiasco, and when she really pondered the curiosity, Bulma found it somewhat odd that the Prince hadn't appeared—mad as a hornet—to complain about 'dragging Kakarot into things' or some such.  _Oh, he's probably gotten the shits up and blasted off somewhere to brood. Who cares?_ Still, though it was brief, it unnerved her—Vegeta had somehow superseded Yamcha in her thoughts over the last few days, and still seemed to be doing it though her ex stood in front of her very face. Upon realising that, she was horrified by it, and with a small gasp remembered herself before him.

"I… I did, I just…!" already, she had turned to the glass ashtray, swinging around to harshly butt the cigarette out with no care for the fact it was only half finished, jabbing it into the ashes and twisting it out of shape to lie among its dead companions. "One and done! I just felt like… indulging my stress a little, that's all…" she lied. "It's not like I'm taking it back up, or anything."

As the bandit leaned to glance past her, he spied evidence to the contrary, taking note of the packet beside her and a brief count of how many she'd had recently. "Then why is there at least half a packet's worth in there?" he mused incredulously, unimpressed as he arched a brow and nodded toward the ashtray.

Caught by a strange old panic, Bulma instinctively grabbed the packet, waving it for him to see before hastily tossing them over the side of the balcony. "There, see? Don't need 'em. I can give it away any time I want to." She raised her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, as if to prove the point and avoid a lecture if possible. Secretly though, she was glad for the distraction… the old peeve made seeing him all the easier, breaking the ice to avoid the pain of it.

But having tossed their distraction away now, the two were forced to really look at each other, and a strained silence of things lingering unspoken began to drift in the air between them. Despite the bright colour he wore, the heiress could see it in his eyes—he was no better off than she was, kept up at night and likely wondering where they had started to slip, thinking back on every little argument and girl and wishing he could go back and reverse it. Her heart nearly broke for him again, knowing that she'd been the one to bring it out into the open… he wasn't smiling, or forcing any façade. He just looked tired, the subtle ghost of sadness lining his visage as he was haunted by the memories and loss.

Self consciously, she tugged upon her sleeve, mutely thankful for the ugly pink nightgown she wore—the bruising was hidden completely under the soft material, and she knew if her ex had caught her in a tank top, nothing but more trouble would come of it. Troubles neither of them needed right now.

Hanging her head low as their reticence became too much, the Heiress focussed instead upon the chipped paint still clinging to her toenails from three weeks prior, suddenly realising how far she'd let herself go. A weary sigh escaped her, though she hid most of it from his ear. "…What are you doing here, Yamcha?"

Shifting cautiously to lean against the balustrade, the bandit settled both hands on it, his tension obvious though he tried to appear relaxed. His gaze avoided her as well, suddenly unsure of himself now that he had finally gotten the courage to come here. "I… was just wondering if you could lend me a few month's worth of ration caps." It was the truth, in a way, but he new she could tell there was more to it than that.

"I was thinking of going back out to the desert and roughing it for a while, Bulma. Puar is going to stay at Master Roshi's, and you know I can't cook, so I figured getting some rations first was a good start. I need to focus on my training for a while, alone… get my head clear and start taking things more seriously. Even Krillin's starting to pull ahead of me, and Tien's just about leaving the both of us in the dust, so…" a listless shrug came as he trailed off, chancing a brief glance up at her before his gaze fell away again, thick fingers drumming pensively upon the balustrade.

"So you're leaving." She finished for him, bringing her arms to hug herself weakly as an old pang tightened her chest. They both knew it; she absolutely hated it when he went away. She worried and pined, and couldn't stand the thought of not seeing him for so long… it didn't hurt so much when they were broken up or fighting, usually, because her anger allowed her to buffer those things and ignore them for a time… but on that note, too, those feelings were one of the driving factors that usually drew her back to him again, once he'd returned. This time, there was nothing to hold back that care or stifle the strain of such distance, though there was nothing she could do for it either.

They weren't together anymore, and they wouldn't be ever again. What he did was his business, and he was right, he did need to buckle down… even so, it was hard to swallow it, so fresh after ending things on  _neutral_  terms. It'd obviously done a number on him, because Yamcha never went on long journeys without Puar beside him unless he was deeply affected by something, and unable to truly hide those pains.

As if to demonstrate that very point, his voice wavered very near to cracking when he spoke again, his dark eyes fixed to the tile beneath. "I'm not here to try and talk you into getting back together… and I'm not going to make promises I can't keep or leave flowers on your doorstep like I usually do…" he rubbed his nose then with a stoic sniff, as if it itched with the want of glossed eyes he couldn't bear to have. "But I couldn't leave with the last time I saw you being the day you broke up with me, either. There are a couple of things I just have to get out there before I go, Bulma."

She didn't want to hear them. Not now. Not from him—and wasn't it just like Yamcha, to lay them at her feet and leave, while she dealt with the shards of guilt and hurt as they pricked her delicate skin. Long lashes gave a slow blink as Bulma forced herself to look him over, her lips drawing thin as she shifted her chair around to face him, a stubborn and irritating screech given as the legs dragged across tile. Propping an elbow upon the back of it, the Heiress cocked her head bravely, wearing a distant look to imply that if he was lying, she would take her leave of him just as quickly.

It took almost all the energy she had just to pretend this was okay.

"Alright, Yamcha… Say your piece, and I'll get your caps, and that's the end of it." She uttered it cautiously, eyeing him sternly for it and holding back any sliver of worry that could've come through. Internally, she hated how cold it sounded, the distance between them suddenly seeming like a mile rather than a few feet, but perhaps that was for the best.

The bandit hesitated to her tone, a flash of hurt darting across his eyes and shoulders setting tense. She could see the subtle twitch of his brow, knowing it for the insecurity it betrayed, but finally his lips moved, outlining his first syllable as the words settled on his tongue; mentally rehearsed. "That big fight we had… the last time we'd broken up before the Saiyans came; you remember… you wouldn't talk to me for a week, at first. Hell, the only reason you forgave me at all was because the battle was coming up. But…" he seized up, as if he were about to sneeze, and closing his eyes he let go of an audibly shaken sigh. "…The blonde. You'd called it off because you thought I was sleeping with her… and I took her out to dinner to spite you, afterward, before we sorted things out."

Bulma's eyes widened upon him dangerously, bitten down fingernails clamping tight to dig into the white plastic of her chair, and the memory—as well as where this seemed to be headed—sent a shiver of fury down her spine. "Go on…" she ground out low, the words slithering through closed teeth.

Thick fingers wandered to his midsection, gripping the front of his gi idly and flapping it as if the warmth of the day had become too much for him. He stared at her for a good moment or so, second guessing his confession with a painful twist in his stomach, but he knew it had to be done. She had to know. He owed her that much… and he needed to know, too, exactly what her reaction would be.

"It's funny, I don't even remember her name, but you… were right. I  _did_  sleep with her. Twice before we broke up and… once after, that night I took her out." His handsome features twisted with some obvious shame for it, and he rose some to regain a little of his height, interjecting upon his own admission. "I'm sorry to tell you that now, Bulma, but I didn't think it was right to let you just keep wondering… If this really is it for us, then I want you to know the truth, but I have to-"

He nearly bit his own tongue when Bulma suddenly stood, knocking her chair aside with such force it nearly toppled over, and flinching for it the bandit fully expected—and deserved, he supposed—to be slapped. When nothing more came of it though, Yamcha's head would rise out of the cringe carefully, unsure of it as one eye cracked open slowly. When again he saw her, she  _was_  livid, but not in the way he'd expected of her… in fact, he had never seen her quite like this before. The air seemed to thicken under the weight of her glare, staring down her ex with all the silent anger and hurt that such a vindication brought with it. Her fists trembled lightly at her sides, held there with great restraint as a flush began to colour her cheeks. The thin line of her lips parted first into a subtle sneer, before the words came through; not a yell, not a scream, not even a hiss.

Bulma spoke instead with a composed voice that almost sounded expectant; a tired thing bereft of affection, hiding the old wound well but coming out slightly vindictive for it. "I knew it. I fucking  _knew_  it." She breathed, her chest rising with a long and calming breath, taken through her nose as her eyes narrowed. "Is there anyone else I should know about, Yamcha, or is that  _all_  you came here to tell me?"

Even in the face of her scorn for it, the bandit knew he'd have his answer very shortly. Something changed about him then, a strange and solemn curve lining his mouth as he shook his head weakly. His voice came steady now, resolute though beaten down.

"No… No, Bulma, she was the only one. The most I've done since you wished me back is flirted with a couple of fans, that's it…Hell, that's all it  _ever_  was…" his head hung low and his whole body seemed to slump then, as if the words she'd just said had whipped at his flesh and made it difficult to stand, black bangs covering his brow from her sight. He held the balustrade as if his legs would crumble beneath him, were he to try and stand on his own. It was now or never.

He knew neither of them would really want to hear what the other said, and if he was right in his guess, the lesson learned would be bittersweet for both of them.

"I just can't keep it in, anymore. I mean… every time you used to accuse me of cheating, I couldn't stand it. You'd get mad at me for just  _looking_ , or even when it was other women looking at  _me_ …! I just got so fed up with it… There was no way I could win; if I didn't, you'd think I did anyway, and there was nothing I could do to change that. But I  _never_  did, not once, Bulma, outside of that blonde I mentioned before. Sure, I got over the shyness, and I'll admit, it felt good to chat somebody up every once in a while just to know I could… No matter what I said, though, you didn't really believe me. You just locked it away in your head, assuming that I was a liar until I won you back somehow, and you 'forgave' me… So I just snapped one day and thought, screw it, I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't, so why not?"

Spinning on her heel as he gave such awful confirmation of her fears, Bulma turned away from him, taking a helpless step to put some distance between them. She didn't want him to see the agony staining her face—it was the truth she'd wanted, but for all the times she'd begged for him to be honest with her, knocked back and placated until she simply gave up on ever hearing it, the tragedy of having it now was simply too much to bear.

Her hands came up quickly, shooting to block her ears on instinct, but forcing herself to listen they would sweep back into blue curls instead, twisting fingers in to tug at them. It took a good moment for her to process it all, not knowing how to feel about the revelation and suddenly finding it was better not knowing. Perhaps in time, she'd be grateful for the sliver of honesty, but at present, his timing was poor.

"Yamcha, you can be a real  _bastard_  sometimes, you know that? You just thought 'why not'?! How about being  _in a_ _ **relationship**_ , that's why not…!" Biting the inside of her cheek, Bulma let her hands fall, bitter as she wondered where the hell it had all started to go wrong for her. Everything was in tatters, falling to pieces and crashing all around her this past week, and the shock of it all had very nearly left her feeling numb and cold; detached from her reality as nothing more than a puppet on fate's string.

Her control over her life seemed little more than some distant illusion now, watching it all so easily undone.

Hesitant to continue, Yamcha's voice was soft and reproachful when again it lilted to her ear. "I'm sorry Bulma… Not a day goes by anymore that I don't think about it. Since I got wished back, the guilt's been killing me… I can't believe I let that happen at all now, let alone knowing I did it out of spite. Just seeing how you looked at me when I came back… the way you lit up… I knew I'd made the mistake that'd break us. Even seeing the articles and your interview in Sports weekly, lying through your teeth for my comeback… I can't tell you how many nightmares I've had, panicking about what would've happened if you found out and how crushed you'd be if you knew…"

A humourless hint of laughter caught in his throat as the corners of his lips rose for the irony. "I honestly thought I was just lucky; I was just about waiting for it to rear its head any old time now. You always had this habit of _searching_  for the things that aren't there, so when it finally did happen for real… it kinda shocked me when it went under the radar, but I guess the fact that I was dead let it be swept under the rug. Since coming back, I pretty much promised myself I'd make it up to you somehow, if I just kept it a secret. It didn't work out that way, obviously, and it's kinda selfish of me… but there's one thing I have to know for sure, and now that we're over, I can finally ask you honestly..."

His eyes were hollow as they drifted over the back of her, washed out and faded though the cynical smirk remained. "Even after telling you the truth, you  _still_  don't believe me, do you? Not the fact that I slept with her, I mean, but that she was the  _only_  one… you can't accept it, can you?"

Staring out at the city skyline as the question crashed upon her like a rogue wave, the heiress found herself unwilling to answer. It was a maddening paradox—for all the years of doubt and accusations, for all the girls and every time she was convinced she had him red-handed, Bulma never did catch Yamcha out in the act… now, it seemed nothing more than paranoia and envy gone awry.  _Now,_  she was being told it was her constant lack of faith that finally  _drove_  him to it, pushed over the edge by a vast rift of mistrust and frustration that'd festered into something ugly; a monster lurking beneath the sanguine comfort of always running back to each other in the end.

"Damn it, Yamcha…" she whispered weakly then, turning slowly back toward him with a fragile glance. "You couldn't have decided to do all this a week ago, could you?" with a broken sigh, she rubbed at tired eyes to give a light shake of her head, in sorrowful disbelief as she wondered how much worse things could get after this.

"…'Course not. That'd be too easy, wouldn't it?" A fleeting and self-depreciative smile hinted across his handsome features then, the ghost of a dimple tugging the side of his scar as he watched her, heavy hearted for it all.

Bulma held it in a moment longer, swirling it about her tongue with distaste—she hated the answer, but it was the only one she had to give. "…No. I don't believe you. I wish I could, Yamcha… but I can't help it." All the wind was gone from her sails, the little rest she'd acquired stripped of her in minutes, and dead feet dragged her toward her chair so that the heiress could collapse back into it. Overcome by life's little hurdles and pessimistic now, Bulma simply braced herself for more. "No matter what I do, the doubt will  _always_  be there. Maybe it's my fault, building a habit out of assuming the lies… because I didn't want to deal with the jealousy; I don't know. Other women were  _always_  interested in you, we both know that, but when you got over your nerves enough to flirt back… I just… didn't trust you anymore."

She rolled her shoulders helplessly, almost surprised at how easily it all left her lips. "Whether you cheated all those years or not, Yamcha… I know I can't live the rest of my life with that suspicion, worrying over something that might not even be there… and now that I know it  _has_ happened, at least once, I just don't know how I could ever ignore that paranoid streak again.  _Especially_  if what you're saying  _is_  true… So what if it  _was_  a one time thing and never happens again? Would I just constantly think the worst of you and punish you for being innocent? I couldn't live with  _myself,_  knowing what that'd do to  _you_  inside… Me, not ever being able to let it go and having that constant cloud ruin anything good about our relationship…  _nobody_  deserves that. Not when you're supposed to love them."

Handsome features were lined with regret as his voice wavered on the very edge of control—there was more depth in his gaze to match what he was saying now, and she swore he was the closest to crying she'd ever seen him. "I know this probably isn't a great way of showing it, but I do love you, Bulma… always have and probably always will. Right from the start, I used to dream about finding the right girl and getting married… but somewhere along the line, I guess I just forgot about it."

"We've been on the rocks for a while, and sure, I can't say I'm completely fine with it all yet… but you always were the one who put your foot down when enough was enough. Let's be honest here, we've  _both_  been taking advantage of each other these past few years, in between emotional blackmail and being faithful and... It's not healthy, you know, and you're right, we're not  _kids_  anymore. We  _are_  past it now, and it's taken me a while to understand… I didn't  _want_  to understand, but… you can't trust me and I can't take the fact I don't make you happy anymore."

Tucking herself up into a ball upon her chair, the heiress would hug her knees close to her chest, hiding her face from him as blue curls fell about to cover it. She wasn't sure if the tears  _would_  come, but she didn't want to take that chance. It mattered not whether they were his or her own… once one of them started, there would be no stopping it. She was on the edge of a complete breakdown as it was, with everything that had happened.

"Please, Yamcha… can we just leave it at that? I appreciate your honesty and all, but I really,  _really_  don't need this right now…" she murmured softly, voice muffled behind her knees and little more than a crushed groan. "You can have the capsules… I've got some right there in my desk draw, okay? Case closed. We're over, we're on good terms, you need to train, and I just physically  _cannot_  handle this day anymore."

… _And to think it started off so well, all sunny and nice… Mom better have more strawberries in the fridge, after this._

"I'm sorry, Bulma, I just had to know for sure. You've had time to wrap your head around it all, I'm just trying to catch up, here… so there's nothing left unsaid between us. I have to get these things off my chest, so we can _both_  move on, you know?" The bandit was sorry for it, and that much was evident in his voice—he could see perfectly well how worn down she looked, and it shocked him to see his Bulma in such a state. He had known he was going to upset her, sure, but even before his confession of guilt, he had noticed how ragged the usually immaculate heiress was. When first laying eyes upon her, he'd honestly wondered if she was sick, but hearing her speak, he knew it was stress that had done this to her. He didn't want to add to it, but neither could he let her go without hearing him out, if this really was the end for them.

She didn't move at all, her gorgeous features buried defensively between her knees so that he could neither see nor gauge her reactions, and awaiting response with an anxious frown, the bandit's knuckles whitened upon the balustrade when he didn't receive one. Clearing his throat in the hopes of drawing her gaze, he pressed on bravely.

"I was also coming here to ask you… if you were okay with my leaving at all. I know it shouldn't really matter now that we're calling it quits, and maybe it's just habit, but I needed to know how you felt first. I'm gonna be gone a long time, and I'll be out of reach. I could be gone three months, or I could be gone a full year… I'm not sure, yet."

Taking a nervous hand to the back of his neck, Yamcha would grit his teeth, finding the words as his fingers twisted into the mane of black locks there to tug. He wasn't sure how to say it, given how offended she could be if it came out wrong,  _especially_  given they'd just come off the subject of cheating and the like… but as his gaze caught sight of that eyesore ship the Saiyan trained in, he found all conviction he needed, some bitterness coming through for it.

"I know I need this trip if I've got any hope of really getting stronger… and the time apart will probably do us both a world of good to make sure we don't fall back into old habits. I mean, if we can't see or talk to each other, we won't be getting back together again, or anything… You know, cold turkey, and that's probably best. But, I don't want to leave you here alone with  _him_  either, knowing there's no way for you to get a hold of me once I leave. I know there's not really anything I could do to stop him, I guess, if he really set his mind to something… but I don't care. I don't trust him, Bulma, and I need to know you're safe. I mean, ever since you told me you had that  _dream_  about him, I just…"

His scarred jaw tensed to cut himself off as the words left him, seeing her head snap up to stare coldly with wide blue eyes—he could see anger and pain in them, and he knew somehow he'd failed in his attempt not to offend her already, wincing internally for it. He drew a stilted breath as shaky hands gripped the barrier tightly, thinking quickly as the Heiress snapped in defence, wearing panic on her sleeve to be thinly veiled by her affronted expression.

"It was  _just_  a  _ **dream**_! Why the hell does everybody have to keep bringing that up!? I never  _meant_  to have it, I  _didn't_  enjoy it, I  _didn't_  break up with you to be with him, and I will  _never_ kiss him!" languid curls whipped back and forth as Bulma shook her head quickly, swallowing down the sting in her throat and pressing a hand to her feverish brow. Blue eyes squeezed shut tightly, wishing this could just stop here, but cutting him off, she found _herself_  needing to be heard instead as she stifled the ghosts of last night's tears. "I know you got jealous and all, but I never meant to make it seem like I had any feelings for him, okay? You  _have_  to know that Yamcha, he has absolutely  _nothing_  to do with this, I swear to you, so please don't think Vegeta influenced my decision to end things… I didn't break up with you just to concentrate on helping him, either!  _Yes_ , I can understand how it  _looks_ , but it is  _ **not**_ like that!"

Black hair swayed behind as he shook his head, empathetic for it as he scanned her tired form, and by the saddened grimace he gave she knew already that he had never doubted it. "I know, Bulma… I know you didn't  _really_ think about anybody else whenever we were together. Even when we weren't, you never went with anyone, though you had plenty of chances to…" slowly he shifted, uncomfortable now that her eyes were upon him, and the bandit took to gazing out toward the city skyline as he leaned against the balustrade.

His answer surprised her some, though she couldn't place quite why at first, blue eyes wavering over the back of him as her magazine flipped a few pages for the breeze beside her. The noise caught her attention, drawing a glance to it, and in the flickering images in the glossed pages as they turned, Bulma caught the familiar glimpse of the bimbo host she disliked— _what was the name of her show again? Tingle…? No, Chime… with Belle, that was it._ Suddenly, the pieces fell into place, and in the strange serendipity, she recalled that ridiculous book and the 'advice' offered by its author not days before.

_As soon as something else catches your eye, expect a ring, because that's his way of bumping up the stakes._

Frowning lightly for it as the phrase blew through her mind, the heiress found her gaze return to her orange clad ex-boyfriend, and before she could find a reason enough to squash such curiosity, the question left her. "Yamcha… why did you offer me a ring that day at Kame House, when I'd already told you my mind was made up?"

She saw his eyes widen a fraction, taken aback by it as biceps visibly twitched to tense, and glancing from the corner of his eye first, the bandit would slowly tilt his head to look back at her earnestly. A light, almost helpless, grimace twisted his mouth. "This is probably gonna sound stupid, but… really, I guess I just thought that was what you wanted from me. When we were younger, and we both wanted to be married, we had some of our best years… I just wanted us to go back to that. I thought, I don't know, maybe a wedding would take us to that place again when we really  _did_  just love each other, instead of just suffering each other just because nobody would…"

Turning his attention back outward to scan the grounds, his thick mane of hair swayed softly in the breeze, a bashful rub of his nose somewhat hiding a half-smile. "That, and maybe it'd make up for all our shortcomings, you know, like we'd have made it anyway so all the bullshit in between wouldn't mean anything anymore." As if it truly was behind them now, he gave a careless roll of his shoulders to dismiss it.

Though the heiress took it in, tilting her head pensively as her toes flexed in consideration, she found herself relieved rather than disappointed. Idle fingers took to a wisp of blue, grooming it self-consciously as she eased into another query, blinking innocently. "…So… when I told you about the dream ages back… you weren't getting  _jealous_  of Vegeta, or anything stupid like that…?"

With a subdued and gloomy chuckle rumbling in his chest, the bandit shook his head ruefully, already sensing his reservations seeping up through the cracks unabated as the subject turned swiftly to the Saiyan.

"Truth is… it was never simple enough to  _just_  be jealousy. I didn't like you spending so much time around him, sure, but that's because I was  _worried_. You haven't seen the side of Vegeta that I have, Bulma. You haven't  _seen_ him smiling with the  _genuine_   _intent_  to see you die, or that sadistic glint in his eyes as he watches you being beaten black and blue. I watched the whole battle in other world, not to mention what he did on Namek… He's an  _evil_ son of a bitch when he wants to be, and no matter how well he behaves lately,  _nobody_  should forget what he's capable of. When you told me about that dream, how he was nicer to you and how you'd even gone so far as to _kiss_  him… how you were worried about his fuel running low out there in space… it  _scared_  me to think how comfortable you were becoming around him… around a man who'd murdered more people than even  _you_  can count, Bulma."

As the nightmares he'd had for weeks flew about his head like an angry swarm of hornets, stinging his heart and making his gut churn, Yamcha clasped his hands in front of his face, grazing teeth against his knuckle in comfort as he glared down at the ship with a hateful scowl. To him, it symbolised the Prince perfectly, recalling how he could do nothing to endure the intense gravity inside; muscles aching and bones threatening to crack under the merciless pressure.

"I just kept thinking… what if you forgot…? What if there came a day when suddenly, he wasn't the ruthless killer anymore and we  _all_  just forgot he'd ever been that way, lowering our guard and paying for it with our lives? What if you got too brave with him one day and he decided he'd had enough of you? What if the bastard lulled you into a false sense of security, only to rape you one day when you're alone? What if he kills you or your father because the work isn't being done fast enough? What if you become a hostage when he decides to turn?! What if the thing he uses to force a fight with Goku is  _your_  death?! I-I just… I…"

Overwhelmed by the thought, the bandit winced visibly, clenching his teeth and trying to bite back on some of his animosity. He didn't  _want_  to hold anything against the Prince unfairly, and much like Goku, a part of him hoped for the best—a powerful new ally that would turn over a new leaf, with a little push, just as Piccolo had. But, where Bulma was concerned, the darkest corner of his mind went to work, churning out the worst case scenarios and plucking discordant notes from his heartstrings. There were so many horrors that still swirled in the smoky darkness of Vegeta's gaze, as much as there was still poison hidden neatly behind the cruel smirk, and Yamcha could not help the dread spawned of it. The Saiyan's crimes were still too fresh in his mind, and far outweighing any small good that had been seen of him as yet.

A pained look took him over, toned muscles twitching for it all over him, and with a sharp and serious look thrown back at her over his shoulder, the bandit hissed. "No matter what happens, Bulma, you  _promise_  me you'll never forget the things that bastard can do with a smile on his face. Please… just look after yourself, and be  _careful_."

The words seemed to hit her straight in the chest, and unconsciously, the Heiress found her hand lingering softly about her upper arm, tracing the hidden bruising beneath. She couldn't help but soften to his concern, and though part of her knew he was right to be cautious still, other parts were warring over it. The Prince was such a mystery to them all, and the unknown was perhaps the scariest facet of him—sure, they all knew what he had been before he came here… but with not a single man down by Vegeta's hand since Namek, Bulma held out a small flame of hope for the misplaced Saiyan.

It was all she could do to keep her sanity, some days. Vegeta drove her completely up the wall, but somehow, she couldn't quite bring herself to dismiss the vague optimism she had about him. She could only wish for the moment that the 'talk' between the two Saiyans last night—whatever it had turned out to be—would set things back on a more tolerable course. The Heiress was still a little uneasy about it all, but at least a few rules would be set in stone for it, and so long as Vegeta held to them, then things could only get better.

 _I guess it's just like Goku says,_ she sighed internally, a tiny smile coming of it and offered to her ex softly,  _we'll just have to cross the bridges as we come to them, whatever they might be. The future is going to be different and anything could happen between now and then… even Vegeta having a change of heart, maybe only a small one, but enough to know he's on our side for good. And hey, even if he doesn't, that cute kid from the future is a Super Saiyan too, right? Between him and Goku, Vegeta's not going to get very far if he does try anything… No way. That'd just… be crazy…_

Letting go of her legs, she would rise slowly to her feet, padding quietly over to place a reassuring hand to his back and enjoying the familiar feel of the orange material he wore. "Yeah, Yamcha, I know. But you know me; I'm tougher than I look, and if anyone can handle him… it's  _me_." her smile broadened some as she echoed Goku's words to her from last night, hoping they'd have the same affect on him as well—he couldn't waste time worrying for her, if it distracted him from his training. The last thing she wanted was for him to die because of her, even in part. So she simply hid her troubles as best she could from him behind that misleadingly confident smile. "Everything's going to turn out in the end. There's a long way to go yet, but I really do believe we'll get there, and you should too, okay?"

For the first time in what seemed like forever and a day inside of her head, Bulma watched those handsome and scarred features shed some of their weariness and soften to match the warmth of the sun above, a small and humble sort of smile gently resting there. With a nod he would shift slowly to straighten up to full height again, turning away from the balcony's edge to face his old flame, comfortable again as he studied her gorgeous visage.

And indeed, to Yamcha, she was always beautiful, no matter how little sleep she'd gotten, or how little make up she wore, or even when her blue locks fell languishing in neglect.

"That's a great attitude to have, Bulma… Yeah, I'll try my hardest out there, just to make that true."

"Good!" she brightened, giving him a light and playfully encouraging bat on the arm, and with a wink she'd turn quickly to surprise him, retreating back through the open glass door of her bedroom.

Left to blink after her, a brow quirked as he heard the shunt of draws opened and closed among paper and other junk jostled about as she rummaged, Bulma was quick to reappear. With on hand gripping the metal frame, she leaned to poke her head out victoriously, and waving a small rectangular tin that rattled some with loose contents. "Alrighty, this is a travel pack I opened not long ago, so it'll mostly be ration caps… but there should also be a capsule house in there—just in case—and I think there's an airbike in there too." Furrowing her brows a little, she'd lower it for her inspection, incredulous. "There's two or three missing, but you're supposed to be roughing it out there, so whatever. I guess it's just lucky dip as to whether you get the house or not." She knew the house was in there, but it was more fun to keep him guessing, poking her tongue out at him briefly.

Slumping a little and sending her a slightly exasperated look, the bandit would ruffle the short spikes of his hair apprehensively and step forward to claim them—he didn't really trust Bulma when it came to keeping track of which capsules were in which cases, but it'd just have to do for now. "Gee, thanks, Bulma." He mused sarcastically, holding back a light chuckle, but as thick fingers took to the small case, they brushed against her skin and gave them both tender pause as the pair stared at the contact between them.

After a moment of silence, the heiress spoke first, a quiet and genuine concern in her voice. "…Don't be a hero out there, Yamcha. Use as many as you need to… I don't expect to get any of these back, okay?" slowly, blue eyes rose to meet his with an unsure twitch of her brow—it took all the willpower she had to fight the habit of kissing him goodbye, the slightest waver to lean forward quickly stifled for the best.

Yamcha watched the movement stoically, biting back on his own instinct to act on old affection, almost pained by the effort as her hand slipped away to leave the case in his alone. A curt nod came for it instead, his gaze flitting down briefly and a more serious expression gained. "Likewise, Bulma… don't take on more than you can manage, here. Whenever Vegeta gets back, just tread carefully and don't do anything that makes you feel unsafe, alright?" his eyes returned to hers with some shimmer regained there, another fleeting though genuine smile flashed with it as he took a step back to turn away. "I guess I'll see you when I see you."

She forced a smile after him, willing herself not to dredge up those old feelings that always came whenever he set out anywhere for long, but watching the bandit lift upwards into the air, the Heiress would blink as what he said caught her. "…Hey, wait! Yamcha! What… do you mean, 'when Vegeta gets back'…?" she called up suddenly, thrusting out a hand as if it would halt him by her thoughts alone. "I… I thought he was in the ship, down there…?" it was an awkward stammer, surprised and bemused as she stared at her ex above.

He didn't stop for her though, simply slowing his ascent to call back to her, glancing down with a rise of his brows. "Huh…? No, I came this morning because I figured it was good timing, given you probably wouldn't be doing anything. I didn't sense him around the grounds at all, so I figured we could talk without  _him_  interrupting… If you really wanna know, Bulma, I think I can feel his ki up north near the mountains. Anyway, take care and I'll see you later!"

With little more than a wave and a pale flare of his aura, the bandit took his leave of both the heiress and the Corporation, speeding off into the flawless sky until Bulma could see no more of him. But as she stood there trying to make sense of this new information, her grip tightening anxiously upon the frame of her sliding door, she wondered of what the Prince's absence may mean and felt a tiny flutter of concern sweep her spine.

_Oh come on, it's Vegeta. He's taken off plenty of times without telling anyone where he's going. I bet he'll be back by dinner time._

And with a sigh and a shake of her head, Bulma dismissed the odd feeling in her belly, retreating back into her room. Having every intent to go downstairs and out onto the lawn, keen on retrieving her precious cigarettes now that the bandit had gone, she made a mental note to herself not to entertain anymore thoughts about the prince for today. The sun was still shining, all was well, and she was going to kick back and relax while the opportunity remained.

Such a shame, then, that when finally dinner time did come around, the Prince was nowhere to be seen.


	9. Eureka

Eight days.

Eight days without argument or incident—nobody invading her space, or berating her for trivial things. No gruff voice to shake her from her reveries or insults to cause her offence. Bulma's daily world was once again one of pleasant smiles from employees within the corporation, the idle hum of her mother cheerily going about watering the gardens or satisfaction her father took in a day's work well done.

She received a fatherly pat on the shoulder and proud confidence when she presented her refined designs for the engines to go in this year's line of airbikes, as was to be expected. Pansy provided her as always with maternal cooing, constantly reaffirming how pretty her baby girl was even without makeup and happily sharing baked goods from 'that lovely new bakery that just opened up near that nice restaurant—you know, the one with the giant koi pond we went to for my birthday last year'.

The Heiress' wish for normality had been granted it seemed, and her life was back to what it had been before Namek; before the Saiyans, before that fateful day Goku learned what his tail had meant… before she had ever known of the surly Saiyan Prince.

At first it seemed a blessing, free to do as she pleased without the constant stress of him being there. Afforded time and rest, Bulma was able to get a handle on everything she'd fallen behind in, and she found it much easier to reconcile her lingering feelings about the break up now that she and Yamcha had gotten some closure. Sleep came easily for the first time in quite a while, with no worry for an intruder in the night or an alarm that she didn't set going off to wake her.

Unburdened by Vegeta's demands, the work was done at her own pace, enjoyable without the rush. Employing her father's help alongside some workers from engineering, the hole blasted in the ship was swiftly fixed, a replacement door manufactured and mounted in place, allowing the use of gravity once more. The new pressure system had also been installed in full to replace the older model, the first set of prototypes proving successful—having been able test them properly under the gravity, without the Prince contesting to it or refusing to stop training long enough for her to do so, the first line of her finished product was put in place immediately.

Perking up some, she had even taken to the upkeep of her hairstyle again to reflect her better moods—she wasn't quite to the point of wearing makeup again, but she had shifted from track pants to a jumpsuit made for working with mechanics, tying the arms of it about her hips during her breaks to reveal the tank top still lingered underneath. Small progress perhaps, but sure signs that she was slowly regaining some inner peace, content to work and prepare for the bleak future and once again holding some faith in overcoming it.

That was, however, only the first few days. As the week wore on with no sign of the Prince's return, Bulma's contentment began to wane, and gradually her 'refreshing break' started to become rather more like a disquieting loss.

Gaps were beginning to appear in the comforts of her usual routines with startling frequency, leaving sad and unsure patches of time in the Heiress' days. She noticed them slowly at first; accidental or habitual things that she expected though didn't often seem to be present outside of her mind. She had a tendency to get defensive if anybody seemed to smirk at her, was much more sensitive of work completed on schedule and found herself giving a slight blink of surprise whenever somebody referred to her by name. One of the employees in her father's lab had noted an error in a report, and Bulma set about them with an aggressive snap to correct and prove them wrong, as if expecting an argument. When it was simply accepted, an apology offered as the employee conceded and nothing more was said about it, she was left feeling rather odd; as if something were amiss. Taken aback by her own hostility, the Heiress could only give a self conscious shake of her head, making a mental note to chill out a little and wondering why she had reacted that way.

As more time passed, those tiny anomalies became increasingly obvious, and larger ones began to creep in as well, leaving lonely spaces with nobody to fill them. Though Bulma tried her best to ignore them, her world seemed to shrink a little more each day, focusing upon the glaring absence Vegeta had left in it. Thoughts of the Prince invaded her mind often, bringing with them a strange feeling of unrest and throwing into sharp relief the Heiress' own sense of isolation, the days dragging out agonisingly slow as she found herself waiting for his return.

Passing glances of the gravity capsule became lingering stares, expectant eyes frantic when they thought they saw movement inside and disappointed sighs given when it was no more than a reflection upon the port windows. The air seemed dead and lifeless without the hum of its use or the pressurised burst of air to signal the door opening from afar, even the light vibration one could feel as they stood upon the lawns seemed noticeable now that it was gone.

By the sixth day, the Heiress realised—painfully inescapable as it seemed to have become—that she missed him, and more than that, she wasn't the only one for whom Vegeta had become a part of daily life.

Ever faithful, Pansy slaved away to create a banquet fit for her favourite Prince without fail each night, cheerfully insisting that he would be hungry when he got home. No matter what Bulma said, the blonde could not bring herself to listen, preparing the food with optimism just in case he finally did arrive. With each meal that passed by, small feasts left to go cold beside an empty chair, the usually spirited chatter of the Briefs' over dinner became instead a sombre hush, each of them careful not to draw attention to their missing guest as they ate in mournful silence. Each day Pansy doubled her efforts, going to incredible lengths of cookery as if the Saiyan would smell it in the air and follow it home, and each day Bulma watched her mother wrap up the uneaten feast with morose to tuck it away in the fridge; her cheery smile replaced by anxious sorrow.

So much left over food meant that the Briefs themselves now only ate what Vegeta had not, yet every night Pansy held to her hopeful ritual, cooking only for the Prince as she willed him to return.

By the dinner of the seventh day, Bulma could stand it no more; a strange desperation taking hold of her to find the Prince and—at the very least—put some of her concerns to rest, if not find out why, despite Goku having convinced her  _not_  to kick him out, he was suddenly gone.

She had spent hours tearing apart her entire room looking for the parts she needed, ripping draws open and searching under her bed, moving piles of clothes and books and scouring the mess for any sign of it. Finally finding the remnants tucked away among the knick-knacks of her bookshelf, she had raced down to her lab, grateful she hadn't thrown them away. Over the course of the night she had set to work, rediscovering old notes and thoroughly scanning what was left of it, trying desperately to remember her work from last time. Reverse engineering what she could from the charred circuitry, she was diligent, leaving no detail unchecked—every button, every wire, even the colouring of the glass was reworked and replicated, put to use in a new model as she built it up by scratch.

The break of dawn went unnoticed as Bulma worked straight through it, programming and finetuning the device until she was absolutely sure it was in accurate working order. It was nearing noon by the time she was done, and with a short test upon the employees and herself, clear readings given without fluctuation or error, the Heiress was confident that her search for the Prince could begin. Loosing a capsule upon the lawn outside her home, a puff of smoke revealed a small hover plane. Wasting no time, Bulma climbed into the cockpit and buckled herself in, taking off with a roar of the engines as she sped away to the North, cleaving clouds in her wake.

With blue eyes trained upon the mountains that covered her horizon, the Heiress would affix the device to her ear, taking a finger to press the larger button on the side and initiate the scanning process. With a loud beep and the audible click and whir of the device as it went to work, numbers and coordinates would flash across the green glass that sat to cover her right eye, narrowing in on the Prince's location quickly. Within seconds she had a lock on him, made easier for the substantially higher power level he had over humans, and with a victorious and sneaky grin, Bulma gave an affectionate pat to her new scouter.

"Thank you, Raditz." she purred, hands tightening around the joystick, and with a confident burst of speed she adjusted course for the wayward Saiyan.

Far ahead of her, hidden within the thickly forested mountain terrain, Vegeta had perched himself neatly upon the highest branch of a frost covered tree, unaffected by crisp morning air as it prickled his thickened skin.

He knew this area well now, intimately familiar with the pristine solitude nature offered—he had mapped out around five miles worth of woodland, memorising every plant and boulder and staying close to a small, half frozen river he had found there. The air was fresh and unsullied by pollutions, every morning heralding the purest dew to form and freeze upon the leaves as the sunrise came vibrantly, unimpeded by the rise of sky scrapers. The only noises were of the wildlife and the rustle of trees as the wind blew through them. The stars shone clearly, the milky streak of the galaxy splayed across the night sky in dazzling detail to lend him comfort and a sense of place. He knew the movements of the animals and had tasted the beasts and game lurking here to be hunted—though they had tempted him, he had refrained from trying the scores of snowy berries to be found here, unfamiliar as he was with Earthly flora.

Since secluding himself within the serene forest as it sprawled lush over the base of a hardy mountain, the Prince had busied himself by taking Kakarot's 'suggestion' to task, putting a great deal of effort into convincing himself that it was his own decision, simply made in response to the news his expatriate had shared about Bulma's supposed injuries. Rationalising the accidental break in his accord with the Woman, Vegeta had resolved to privately rectify the cause rather than address the symptom. Loathe as he was to admit to it, Kakarot had caught him out—indeed, his mental acuity  _had_  slipped some over the past few months, and for it the Woman had seen more force than he had intended when cast aside that day.

He told himself repeatedly that he couldn't care less for the fact that Bulma had been injured, and though somewhere deep within him a sliver of guilt lingered for his broken promise to her, the Saiyan squashed such sentiment quickly whenever it arose. No, the important thing to arise out of this was the realisation that he had grown negligent in a facet of his training, thus hindering his own progression. He was simply ashamed for it to have gotten far enough out of hand that his honour would be called into question  _as well_  as his self control, and so he had removed himself to alleviate this problem, realigning mind and body to function in perfect unison once again.

Yes, this had very little to do with the Woman at all… she just so happened to be  _there_ , caught in his affairs for the fact she couldn't keep her nose out of them.

That was what he told himself.

Despite his best efforts however, quite a few times over the course of his absconding, Vegeta had found his thoughts drifting dangerously toward the heiress, anyway. Having not actually seen her to gauge how much damage was done, the question burned in him for how badly he had actually hurt her. How angry might she be with him, or bitter, even scornful? How fearful was she now that the wafer thin semblance of trust had clearly been torn asunder, and was it true that she had so desperately wanted to be rid of him? Why would she, of all people, hide behind Kakarot if she held issue with him? Was it because he had apparently broken his word, or was it something she'd simply hidden all along, masking her insecurities about his presence and putting on a façade of confidence and courage? If she did  _not_  wish to control his affairs, as Kakarot said, then why remain so present and intrusive in the business of somebody you fear, given the choice?

And more than anything… did she  _hate_  him?

At one point or another, all of these things had breezed the Saiyan's mind, some pondered more than others. He ignored most of them, refusing to respond to himself, paranoid of the answers and locking them away. Vegeta had no need to entertain the attachments these Earthlings were forcing upon him, and simply didn't want to besides that.

It unnerved him that such things, apparently of their own will, would spring to life in his head and spawn pockets of chaos within the strict and well-ordered system of thought he had built there. He had not anticipated that the Woman's odd behaviours with him might've actually been some sort of subliminal conditioning, and the notion that he had underestimated her proclivity for psychological warfare seemed very plausible now that he was apart from her. As a matter of fact, the Prince had noted that he seemed to suffer the effects more strongly the longer he spent away from her. Even his most idle of thoughts could swiftly take leave of his direction and threaten foreign sensations within his analytical brain, leaving him anxious and unsure of his proximities to the blue-haired Earthling.

As numerous conspiracies popped in and out of Vegeta's mind during his meditations—perhaps a chip implanted when he was in the injury ward after the explosion; her lingering presence  _did_  make that very suspicious—the wayward thoughts made it difficult for him to concentrate at first. Frustrated and finding them hard to dismiss, instead he sought a way of making use of the mental impression the Woman had obviously administered while he was unawares, turning it against her in the regaining of his self-control. Aside from the irony of it, the Prince quickly deduced a way to train his ki management based on memories of Bulma—more specifically, things about her that annoyed him.

For every thought that turned to her, he would delve into it, focussing upon her faults—like that disgusting room of hers, for a start—and letting his rages soar before taking hold of his energy in those moments and reining it in sharply, calming himself. Occasionally it backfired, leaving the Saiyan a damning glimpse of her as she slept by his bedside, the helpless tears in her eyes as she threw the key at him, even the echo of her worried voice searching for him in the rubble or the chime of her laughter as it slipped past a gorgeous smile. But with bitter tenacity, convinced that there were more flaws to find in her than not, Vegeta managed to overcome that small setback and find plenty of imperfections to answer those scant few niceties. The sound of her voice as it pitched into a shriek, the vulgar and tasteless statements she made, the ridiculous colour of her hair, the nasal sound of her snoring, that  _hideous_  pink shirt she made him wear; all of it became fuel for his fires, letting them flare violently before he doused them…

And slowly but surely, it seemed to have worked.

Now resting as he leaned bare shoulders against the glossy bark of his tree, he let his elbow rest upon a raised knee, enjoying the crisp scent of the air and gazing out over the picturesque canopy. As dark eyes traced the forest, the landscape glassy with frost and tender patches of white and green, Vegeta felt at ease. He had enjoyed the quiet and made good progress, content with the effort thus far. Though he only wore black drawstring pants and a pair of gloves, the cold didn't bother him at all, kept warm as he was by a light surge of ki at all times—having lost his tail, his balance had been affected ever since, and though he was mostly accustomed to its absence now, he maintained a pocket of energy to act as a stand in for the missing appendage. Sitting at such a height, balance was imperative.

An emptiness clawed at his stomach with a light growl, and though he'd been ignoring it for a while, Vegeta would glance downward at his torso now to acknowledge his hunger with a frown. Taking hold of a thinner branch above him he would lean out some, and scanning the ground below, the Prince's mouth would tick. He couldn't sense any animals in either of the traps he'd laid as yet; disappointed for it—he'd already stripped his last kill to the bone. Tilting his head up slowly, a twitch of his nose would let him scent the crisp air, taking in his surrounds even further for anything he'd missed as his senses fanned out through the trees. A brow twitched as he tossed up whether to simply go on the hunt instead of waiting for a trap to be sprung, but as the Saiyan picked up on an odd signal as it approached, his gaze took to the skies to find it.

 _It's too weak to be one of those giant flying reptiles, but too fast to be a bird of any kind,_ he puzzled to himself, squinting at the horizon with intrigue as he caught sight of something.  _Must be something I haven't seen before. Whatever it is, it's heading my way, so it must be fairly keen on being eaten._ With a greedy smirk he shifted, pulling himself up on the thinner branch above and coming to stand with a lazy stretch. But as Vegeta rolled his shoulders, taking a moment as he considered how best to kill this airborne target without blasting the precious meat to bits, his ears perked to the distant sound of engines as they roared across the forest.

Confusion swept his features for a second, not having heard such a sound out here at all during his stay, and when he realised the strange flying creature was no more than a small hover plane, a dark scowl took him over. People did not venture out here. Narrowing his eyes with a slight snarl, he stared at the intrusive craft, refocussing his senses to define the ki more clearly. As it drew closer, Vegeta found he recognised the signature—that pathetically weak whine of life, high pitched like a ringing in one's ear…

The Woman had found him.

He turned swiftly, giving the trunk a frustrated slap that shook the whole tree, causing birds to take flight around him as the prince sneeringly cursed in his native tongue. How the hell did she even know where to find him? He was under the impression that the idiot had no sense of ki—that was very nearly impossible, to think one so unschooled could master such a thing… if she had, why then would she still be clueless as to the mechanics of combat and flight? Growling under his breath, the Saiyan continued his string of native swearing, gritting his teeth and whipping his head back to glare at the approaching vehicle as its shape became more visible. With an agitated grimace, Vegeta watched the craft slow down, finally coming to hover no more than twenty meters away before descending carefully down between the trees, aimed for the clearing beside his river.

He was immediately aware of movement within the forest around him, her landing having disturbed animals of all shapes and sizes as they were sent scattering away from the strange sound she brought with her—cleaving his chances of trapping food significantly, and resigning him to manually tracking it down himself.

"…Fantastic." Leaning a gloved hand against the bark, the prince would heave an irritated sigh, hanging his head in a harassed manner and finding himself reluctant to engage her—he could outpace her little toy easily, should he choose to fly off now… but then, it was likely she would only find him again later. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he resolved to stay, but decided quickly that he wasn't going to be getting down from his tree. Either she could climb up, or—as was likely the reason she came to find him—she could yell. Shifting again as his hand fell away from the tree, muscular arms would cross over his chest and the Saiyan would lean his shoulder against the trunk instead, dark eyes scanning the foliage below and waiting for the Woman to appear.

"Vegeta? Hey, come out; come out, wherever you are!" Calling out to him from beyond the trees, he held his silence and gave no hint to where he was. "Come on, it's cold out here! Where are you? Vegeta…!"

Within the minute she came stumbling through the bushes carelessly, brushing them awkwardly aside with some difficulty and swatting at the distastefully when the leaves caught her hair. Blinking a little as she freed herself of them to stand at the base of his tree, the Heiress' brows furrowed in search of him, she would give one last click of the scouter to give hint to the Prince's hiding place. A shrill beep sounded in the air, drawing his attention from on high as the sound—that sickeningly familiar sound—brought back memories he didn't care for, a wide eyed stare fixated upon the unmistakable green glass that gave the device away.

 _She's resourceful, when she wants to be…_ That certainly explained how she was able to find him, though the suspicion it raised didn't favour comfort or leave him impressed. He knew by the scouter's ranging that this was the closest she would come to spotting him, confirmed when Bulma's confused gaze did not wander upward; despite his resolve to stay hidden, his curiosity got the better of him with an impatient and paranoid rap of fingers upon his bicep.

"Where did you get that?" he spat incredulously, eyeing the device warily.

Startled, the woman would give a frantic glance around, unsure of which direction his voice had come from initially, but by way of elimination, the Heiress would finally look up to see the surly Saiyan glaring down at her with narrowed eyes. Squinting up at him, Bulma placed a hand to her brow, blocking the high sun of noon as a wry smile snuck across her features.

"Oh, there you are." She mused nonchalantly, as if she was perfectly used to finding him perched in odd spots. "Come down here, Vegeta. I wanna talk to you."

A dismissive grunt saw his head cocked belligerently. "Answer the damned question, Woman.  _Then,_ if I'm satisfied, I _may_  join you." He growled it out low, warningly. He was no longer in her home, at present, and as far as Vegeta was concerned, the Woman now stood upon his territory. She would play by his rules, now. "How did you acquire that scouter?"

With a roll of her eyes as they fell, the Heiress would sigh, shaking her head as she settled hands lightly on her hips. She muttered something, and though the Prince's ears perked to hear it, he couldn't quite make it out. "I built it this morning to find you. You just took off and we haven't seen you in over a week, Vegeta, I was wondering where you've been-"

"You pilfered  _Cold Empire_  technology so you could have a tracking device to keep tabs on my whereabouts? Have you no sense at all?" The disapproving scowl darkened as the Saiyan bristled, bearing his teeth—had he a tail, it would've fuzzed to thrash about behind him, distrustful of the presence of that particular equipment. "If the remnant network were to pick up on your frequencies, they could listen in on every word you say! Shut it off!"

Frowning at the negative response, Bulma would huff a little, plucking the device from her ear and waving it up at him as if to emphasise what she was saying. "Would you calm down? I built this thing  _myself_ , I know what it can and can't do, and how it works! For your information,  _Vegeta_ , I removed the transmitters from this design because, shocking as it might sound to you, I  _was aware of that_!"

Pointing an accusatory finger down towards her, the Saiyan hissed. "Don't you lie to me, Woman! I know damn well you Earthlings don't have any such technology on this rock; the circuitry present in that device is  _far_  more sophisticated than the paperclips and rubber bands you're accustomed to!" he scoffed cynically then, tucking the gloved hand into the barrier of his crossed arms once again. Sneeringly now, his tone bordered on the condescending, his chin raised high as if to snub her. "Now tell me where you  _really_  got it, and this time, don't try to impress me with your false claims of being a 'genius'."

Visibly rising to fluster at his comments, the Heiress stifled an irritated groan as her hands balled into fists at her sides, hackles raised like a cat in water as she bit her tongue to keep from screaming at him. No, she wasn't going to give in to it again. She'd promised Yamcha she'd be more careful about it, and she herself knew well enough that if every interaction between her and the Prince became and argument, thing were never going to improve. There had to be common ground and a little bit of restraint if they were to continue being housemates, and if he was too immature to make the first strides in that, then she would just have to guide the way.

Drawing a patient breath and gritting her teeth to rid herself of her urge to snap at him, Bulma conceded slowly to tilt her head back up at him, her breath fogging out lightly before her. "I  _copied_  the design off the  _original_  one I took from  _Raditz_ , okay? That one exploded when you were fighting Goku, so  _this_   _time_  I had to build one from scratch!" she waited a moment for response, but when the Prince returned only a guarded silence, she frowned with just a hint of her temper, shrugging to bring her hands up in helpless surrender; defensive. "What? Is it really so hard to believe? I did help dad with the rebuild of the gravity generator too, you know, and I'm usually the one who upgrades it for you!"

His mouth ticked then, lips drawing thin as the act found purchase to insult him, and old itch trailing Vegeta's spine resentfully. "…So you happily steal from the dead, I see. Spoils looted from one of my own fallen brethren and held onto, with every intent to be used against me in future…" dark eyes narrowed dangerously as the truth of it came to light. "That is the case, isn't it? You were told Nappa and I would come, so you stole it to keep track of us when we did and gauge our power. Did you ransack his ship as well? Perhaps you stripped the corpse of his armour, hoping to duplicate and sell it as  _your_  design." His head cocked to one side and a hateful glare took stock of her below. "Has your corporation  _always_  made its profits on stolen technologies, or is that just a recent development?"

"It wasn't exactly like he was  _using_  it anymore! The guy was  _dead,_ and I'm sorry, but he did try to kill us, you know! Taking advantage of the enemy's resources is pretty fair, in my opinion, and you're being a total hypocrite! I know for a  _fact_  you did exactly the same thing up on Namek, fighting Frieza! Now get down here and stop being such a dick about it!" the Heiress would point a finger at the ground, as if telling a dog to sit, and upon seeing that the Prince growled down in response to flash sharp canines at her.

Both of them held their positions for a moment, a brief contest of wills that declared one of them would have to give first, though it was clear the pair were as stubborn as ever. Finally, catching herself with a roll of blue eyes, Bulma shook her head. Annoyed now, she decided to try some reverse psychology instead, heaving a sigh and hoping for a better result soon. "Geez, I won't  _bite_  you or anything! Why are you always so damn evasive, all the time? I mean, come on, you're hiding in a tree, for goodness sake! What, is it 'no girls allowed' or something? Don't  _make_  me come up there!"

_And here he claims he's_ _**not** _ _a monkey…_

When even that didn't do, the Saiyan shifted on his branch, placing a gloved hand to the trunk and looking as if he were about to take off again—desperate now, Bulma took a risk and gave it one more try.

"…Only cowards hide like this, Vegeta! Are you really so afraid of having a  _conversation_?"

Caught off guard, he appeared to be affronted by such a challenge at first. Bulma watched his expression change, and it seemed the Prince was quick to fall for her goading, stepping off of his branch with haste to jump down and face her. Bending his knees lightly to land upon frost covered grass with a soft crunch underfoot, Vegeta was quick to resume his full height, stalking toward her with a snarl as gloved hands tightened into fists either side of him. Well, at least she'd gotten him down as planned—she had a feeling if she prodded a bit, he'd fall for the rise.

A triumphant little smirk curved her lips for it briefly, until over the short few steps between them those dark eyes of his met hers with a strange flash caught in them. Any amusement fled her when she saw it, a bemused blink sending her blank as she found herself unsure of how to read the look he was giving her. He wore as ever that dark scowl, a tired and angry thing formed of years worth of hate and bitterness, but somewhere swirling in the black smoke of his gaze, the Heiress swore she saw something else—perhaps it was hurt, maybe confusion or disorder as whatever thoughts he was having suddenly betrayed him, but whatever it was, the change was as subtle as it was instant.

She could literally see something winding tight within him, threatening to snap as she was reminded of the day he had blown that hole in the ship—the déjà vu was uncanny, every twitch of his muscles, the waver of his glare, the flash of sharp canines. The baffled Prince, unable to understand her intentions and scouring her form for any clue as to the truth of it; the Heiress caught staring at him intrigued, unsure and simply unable to retreat from the sinister sight of his advance. That jump in her pulse, caught somewhere between unease and concern, perplexed as she fumbled the scouter in her hand to hide it behind her thigh, just as she had with the key.

She recognised it then, a tiny moment of eureka as blue eyes widened—he had the same glint in his eye he held before she'd pelted the key at him, losing herself to cry instead of spitting poison at him that day. That quiet, lost uncertainty when the first tear had slid down her cheek, hidden thinly behind the mask of rage; she realised then that the Prince must've second guessed what to expect from her more often than not, probably never knowing  _what_  she was thinking or how she truly perceived him.

When she heard the frustrated pique in his voice, Bulma had her confirmation. Vegeta wasn't the only enigma that couldn't be figured out, it seemed—perhaps he wasn't so alien from her after all.

"You're the one who would hide from  _me_ , safe behind your precious pet, Kakarot! You wanted me  _gone_ , and now that I've left, you come asking where  _I've_  been like I owe  _you_ an answer!? Why can't you just leave me  _ **alone**_!? Obviously my word is worth less than nothing to you, so what difference does it make  _what_  I say? You don't want to talk; you want to find out why I've refused to accept staying put under your heel when Kakarot  _begged_  your clemency and you  _deigned_ to allow it! I held up my end of the accord, you capricious snake, you're the one withholding your damn technology to lord it over—as you so succinctly put it—a  _stupid monkey_ who cannot fix it himself!"

When he threw the words back at her like that, Bulma couldn't help but wince for them—the way they sounded so harsh, dripping from his mouth like blood torn fresh from old wounds. She regretted calling him that now; even in her anger, even though she didn't know the story behind it, she could guess it was an insult that meant more to him than she would ever intend it to be. Distantly aware of the little voice in the back of her head, Yamcha's warning ringing there faintly, she tucked the word away never to be used again.

The Heiress kept her head inclined low, taking the brunt of his anger in stride and biting the inside of her cheek to stifle her own frustrations with him—what he was spouting at her didn't seem to make much sense in her mind, and Bulma found herself a little shocked by his apparent perception of her. She didn't know exactly what she'd done to trigger such a negative twist to be taken of her actions, but now was the time to put him straight, and in doing so hopefully fix the tenuous alliance between them.

Acidic, he turned his body away from her some, keeping his gaze upon her as he spat his venom and looked just about ready dismiss her once again. " _ **You're**_  the one who sought  _ **me,**_ and you'd do well to remember that! Now spit it out, Woman, what do you want from me so badly you'd revive a worn-out piece of trash like that just to track me down!?"

She wasn't entirely sure what to make of it, but it sounded to her almost as if she'd upset him when calling in Goku to escort him off the premises—quite often, she supposed, she forgot about the fact that despite all evidence to the contrary, somewhere deep inside him there must've been feelings there to hurt. She knew that was the truth, or his reaction to being called a monkey wouldn't have brought all of this up in the first place… the Heiress had been hesitant to bring Goku into things, knowing it might offend him further. Loathe as she was to put her own pride aside and reach for help though, Bulma knew that once she'd hit that point within herself, she hadn't had a choice. Things had to change, and at the time, it looked as if she was out of options.

She had accepted the fact that, over the last eight days, she had missed his presence. Despite all of their troubles, a connection had been forged with the Saiyan—it wasn't friendship, and Bulma still couldn't quite put her finger on what it was… but the odd rapport was there all the same. She had never guessed it would be more than one-sided until now.

When she'd asked to be rid of him, without realising it at the time for her anger, she had threatened to condemn him to death. Her acceptance of him was the only thing separating the Prince from his grave; both of them knew that… from his point of view, it looked as if she thought his life disposable for the flippancy she'd shown in tossing him out.

Nearly two and a half years since the return from Namek; slowly building trust between them, shattered in one bad week as they turned upon each other…

"…I just wanted to see if you were okay."

Bulma didn't look up at him just yet, her gorgeous features dimmed by a rueful grimace as she brought the scouter forward, holding it limply before her and staring down at it. Hours of work had been poured into building it just to find him, and the very thought pained her to do it, but somehow the symbolism of the act was all she could think of to break through his defences—all she needed was the chance to talk, rather than argue, and she knew Vegeta could only do that if she provided him a reason to feel secure… but with this device reminding him of his past at every glance, she would just have to forgive herself for it later.

"You need to stop trying to tell me what I'm thinking, Vegeta. The only reason we're always at each other's throats is because we're too busy making assumptions and not bothering to find out the truth. I know you don't really care about me and Yamcha, but I just found out I had the same problem with him that way too… it was one of the main things that ended us, actually. The only reason I built this thing at all was to find  _you_  and talk a few things out."

Turning her hand negligently it would fall to the ground, a tiny bounce given helplessly as it hit a frosted patch dirt, and taking a moment to close her eyes apologetically to her poor creation the Heiress lifted her yellow boot to hover over it maliciously. Quietly she addressed him, not having to peer up to know the Prince's expression would've faltered in some shock. "I think we've had both a pretty bad run lately, and a lot of misunderstandings, so let me just make one thing totally clear right now. I don't care how advanced the technology is, a  _thing_  isn't ever going to be more important to me than a  _person_."

On that note, perfectly reflecting the way mistrust had crushed her relationship, her boot lowered without mercy on top of the scouter. An agonisingly strained destruction came of it, cracks forming across the glass one after the other under such pressure. Every one of them drew a tense twitch from the Saiyan, dark eyes fixated upon the doomed device as gloved fingers flexed anxiously, waiting for it to suddenly give way to smash and shatter. When finally the glassy crunch came, like a dam finally breaking to let relief wash over him, the flame haired Prince found himself morbidly fascinated—he couldn't place his finger on it, but somehow the act had bought the whole of his attention. Reluctantly turning back toward the Heiress now, he withheld a sigh, internally cursing himself for allowing such distraction… there had to have been conditioning involved, there simply had to, for he found himself strangely drawn to hear her out.

Nodding with a hint of finality, the Heiress glanced up at him with a small smile, a knowing thing that brightened her face and gave her an openness and warmth. "You know something…? I try pretty hard to learn from my mistakes, when I make 'em. I don't like admitting I'm wrong, sure, who does? …But once they come to light, I'll always try to fix them. I think you and me aren't so different that way. Otherwise, you wouldn't be out here in the first place, right?"

Such a simple thing, and yet so subtly sincere—the Woman held a fragile point, perhaps… they would deride and yell, spit barbs and trade quips, argue and resent and blame… at the very best of times, they might offer some small civility, a neutral comment or her attempt at chatter that he quickly dismissed. But  _never_  did they simply talk.

He had not wished to talk, of course, but therein lay the dilemma. The Heiress required some sort of interaction from him, and give all of them thus far were negative, it was logical that they had come to this; bad reactions to forced socializing, bottlenecked into blame and aversion. For the accord to be upheld without misgivings breaking down their arrangement, a small compromise had to be made, and he cursed her for backing him into the corner like this.

As the Prince stared at her with wary reticence, the unrelenting scowl sharpening handsome features, the obsessive hold on his prejudice was slowly shaken. He did not accept that the Woman was not Tuffle reincarnate just yet, however if she was genuine in what she said—and he had, perhaps, slightly misjudged her intentions—the only way to truly know was to test such waters. Unfortunately, he could neither act upon countering her indenturing of him nor progress far in his training without giving her a chance to prove herself otherwise.

Returning a sceptical squint to her forgiving smile, the Saiyan leaned back on his heels as if suddenly finding her too close for his liking. "I didn't accept your invitation on the premise that to do so was to go back into slavery, Woman. I will not be ruled by the likes of you, and you can not buy my compliance with your machines. I swore not to harm you and yours, but that does not create a loophole in which you can safely attempt to strike or control me. Our agreement is only binding while I continue to accept your services and take up residence on your property… for these past eight days I have been free of any obligation to you, and so long as I stand here, I still am."

Bulma's brow rose when she heard him, surprised for how specific the Prince was being over a basic ground rule turned verbal contract— _What is he, a lawyer…!? I had no idea he was so iron-clad about it…_ Blinking a few times and running over the words in her heard just to make sure she hadn't imagined it, the Heiress realised Vegeta had probably mapped out strict guidelines for how their relationship functioned right down to the fine print, and unaware of it as she was there were probably quite a few rules she'd broken in his book.  _I_ _ **knew**_ _the guy was insane, I mean, who does that!? The 'no touching me' thing was a joke, for crying out loud, I didn't mean it literally! …Still, if it's saved my hide a couple of times, I guess maybe it's a good thing he took it so seriously._

Bemused by it, she shook her head lightly, deciding to just go along with how much importance he'd placed on it and making a note of it for the future. "I'm not here to rub our 'agreement' in your face or anything… Really, I didn't  _want_  to call Goku, but I didn't think I had any choice… You think I don't take  _your_  word seriously, but you don't even seem to  _acknowledge_  mine!" her eyes widened to emphasise that, but Bulma quickly withdrew, deciding not to retrace steps now that they were finally seeming to move forward. Watching as her breath fogged out in the chilled air as if the words were visible within it, she slumped some, turning to take a few lazy steps and holding her hands behind her back to look up at the treetops.

"…Look, Vegeta, we had a bad day. I was super stressed out and I over reacted a little, but  _you_  shouldn't have been in my room without permission. Obviously, that wasn't part of the  _rules_  between us, but it is from now on and the same goes for me and invading your privacy too, okay? You totally  _deserved_  to be punched, by the way, with the massive attack on my character. I didn't deserve that, whether you think those things are true or not, and I  _know_  you were trying to get under my skin… but whatever was going on in your head, I shouldn't have taken a swing at you. You should've had more restraint rather than just throwing me down too, so that puts us  _both_ in the wrong."

She heard him scoff cynically behind, his foot crunching the frosty grass beneath as a challenging step was taken toward her. "Well, if you came out here thinking you would get an apology for these supposedly mutual transgressions, you're sadly mistaken!"

He spat it at her so defensively, she very nearly felt the words hit the back of her neck, and it tore a long and tired sigh from her as she turned her head, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "If you came out here to work on keeping your power in check, then hey, I'm happy enough with that. As long as I know it was an accident and you're making an effort not to let it happen again, then you're still welcome to stay at my place and I promise I'll be more mindful as well, okay? We can just put it behind us and work from here, don't sweat it."

Gritting his teeth now, Vegeta was content to glare a hole in the back of her ridiculous blue hair—he couldn't make sense of her. She had run the full course from conceit to modesty, circling through outrage and coming right around to being humbled by epiphany; insulting him as she turned  _his_  technology around on him and claimed it for own, only to crush it under her heel and claim it a means to an end. Tracking him down like prey, and yet when caught, there was to be no flash of her talons… his gaze shifted downward to waver over the slivers of green glass left in the frost.

Though he willed it to be scathing, his voice lost some of its gravel to come quietly. "…So you decide to forgive my actions… and just because you acknowledge your own error, you think it's all said and done?" gloved hands flexed at his sides to betray the uncertainty lingering beneath his skin, and ever sceptical—ever stubborn—the Prince would resist her still. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps you hadn't gained  _my_  clemency for such disrespect, and so I terminated our contract myself? There's no urgency in you at all, and though you often claim to be 'helping' me, you often cost me precious little time. Kakarot grows more powerful by the day, and because I'm forced to rely upon your expediency and whim, I lag even further behind him. Removed from our accord, I cut such losses and reclaimed my control in more ways than one. If I am out here, you cannot tell me when I can and can't train."

A humourless laugh bubbled up from her lips, a puff of fog before her as blue brows furrowed over a fey smile. "I honestly thought this much would be obvious by now, Vegeta, but I don't wanna see you get yourself killed. I'm not making you wait or take breaks from your training to punish you or purposely hold you back, and I don't do it to 'lord' the technology over you, or make you rely on me so I can claim credit later, or  _anything_  like that…! I don't even know where you  _get_  these ideas!" throwing her hands up to yield, Bulma turned toward him to tilt her head, as if all of this should have been as clear as day without her having to tell him.

"The fact is it takes a lot of time and effort to design, build and install all the equipment you need, and a lot  _more_  money—not just to keep you up and running, but to keep you  _safe…_ To make sure you can go all out in there without another incident like last time. The whole reason I put in the emergency shut off was so that if anything went wrong, I could turn off the gravity from outside and get you out of there; not so that I could lock you in and out or have the power to decide when you trained…"

As Bulma spoke, she found herself desperately tracing the lines of his face for any sign that she was getting through to him; any sliver of empathy and understanding for her side of it that may seep up through the bitter cracks in his façade. His brow relaxed a fraction to lessen the dark scowl he sent her, and slowly the sneer hidden in the corner of his mouth began to dissipate, the sharp hint of a canine vanishing with it. He was guarded still, but his eyes had changed—she could see the smoky gaze swirling with something other than hate or anger, and though she couldn't place what it was, it was certainly a start… that they held something at all was progress. Recalling the hollow stare, bereft of life like the very fires of his soul had been snuffed out, the Heiress found she actually preferred to see resentment flash across them in comparison.

She decided then that she liked the look he was giving her currently—to anybody else, it might be impossible to distinguish any difference from his usual scorn, but for Bulma, his eyes spoke quietly of better things to come between them. It was as if the very weight of his glare had been lifted, and for that a great sense of relief washed over her.

A curious—and somewhat cautious, for the Woman's vulgar nature—twitch of Vegeta's brow came when the Heiress would suddenly glance down at her cleavage, pulling the front of her tank top forward and inadvertently flashing him a small view of her bra. Tensing on instinct, the Prince glanced away quickly when her free hand came to dive into the undergarment, fishing around a moment before pulling something small out of it. Upon hearing the frost crunch with her stepping forward, the Saiyan fixated on a tree to his left, unsure of whether he wanted to look back to her as yet. But when she advanced no further, her outstretched arm lingering amicably in the corner of his vision, Vegeta thought it safe enough to return his attention to her.

As he did though, he found himself shocked; dark eyes widening a fraction to stare—not for her having exposed herself as he'd feared, but for what she presented to him. Held gingerly betwixt thumb and forefinger, glinting under the faded sun like the slivers of ice around them, the little blue key lilted humble; instantly providing substance to back up her words.

"…Brought this for you." She smiled softly, a coy and private thing, and in that moment he couldn't help but notice the key matched her shimmering eyes in colour. Perky curls swayed some as she tilted her head in a cheery way, and her pride for a job well done shone through. "It's all fixed up. The new pressure system is in, door's been replaced with a new opening mechanism as well, and dad swapped out any chipped tiles in the floor. I made sure nobody went in your room during the repairs, too… It's been done for a while actually. But you took off, so you have no excuse to blame me for missing out this past week."

Hesitant at first, the Saiyan's gaze flicked between her face and the key as if unsure of which he should be focussed upon, but then she saw his gloved fingers flex. His hand rose slowly, carefully, hovering just in front of hers and poised to receive—the subtle tremble betrayed how eager he was to simply snatch it, claim it and never let her have it again. But with a great deal of effort to restrain such open possessiveness, Vegeta managed to take the key with aloof decorum instead, offering a curt nod as his hand retreated quickly back to his side.

Stifling a small giggle for it, Bulma withdrew as well, glancing at the ground between their feet and idly toying with a few wisps of blue about her neck. She watched the Prince awkwardly shift his weight from side to side, and she knew their conversation—as well as most of his anger—had come to a standstill. It was almost endearing, she thought, the little quirks that emerged whenever Vegeta was at a loss for how to respond to something; sad too, she noted, that those things were often acts of kindness.

But in her bubbly way, hope restored some and optimistic about the work to come, the Heiress was quick to offer him reprieve with a playful smirk. "Now are you coming home or not?"

The word pricked his ears with a sharp clarity he didn't like, an itch trailing his spine as his grip tightened upon the key. Dark eyes snapped back to her, narrowing as his usual defences came back up to block her instinctively. His jaw wagged in consideration of it, the echo bouncing about in his head and knocking a few old things loose that set him on edge—what a dangerous supposition she'd made, but more shockingly than that, how accurate it was swiftly becoming. In the face of that bitter acuity, he denied it offhand, unwilling to admit to such a thing.

"This place will  _never_  be my home, Woman."

But the Woman simply smiled back, giving a light tussle to the back of her locks with such a carefree manner, it almost seemed she hadn't even heard him.

"Joke's on you then…" she teased, offering a roll of her shoulder as she turned away, gesturing for him to follow. "Home isn't a  _place_ , Vegeta. It's  _people_  who care about you, and whether or not you care back, you've got one. So come on."

Much like his resolution to stay put in the tree, Vegeta stubbornly held his ground as she began to walk away, watching the cheeky swing of her hips and struggling with himself to defy her. Frowning, he lifted his hand to inspect the key, ears perking to the scouter glass as it crunched under her steps. He knew he wanted to follow. It took more effort to stay, watching her slowly retreat back through the bushes; swatting them aside as her precious hair was protected… perhaps it was simply the promise of the key. He was allowed his progress once more, free to return to it immediately under the sweet spell gravity placed on his power—he knew also that the blonde would provide him a meal that need not be hunted.

These were the reasons returning appealed to him. The Woman and all her pretty little speeches had very little to do with it…

That was what he told himself.

Through the trees her voice echoed out once again, calling back to him. "There was no red carpet last time, and there's not gonna be one now, Buster, so move it!"

And despite every spiteful reason he could think of not to, when Bulma looked back she found the Prince trailing faithfully behind her, looking all the world like a sulking child.


	10. Cracks in the Facade

A few weeks had swept by since the Prince returned to Capsule Corporation, and most things had settled down into a steady and predictable pace, each day passing with relative calm. Overjoyed, Pansy once again cooked for the whole family—instead of settling them with uneaten leftovers—and had taken to spoiling Vegeta even more than usual, as if trying to prevent him taking off again. Much to Bulma's chagrin that meant the Saiyan's preference now governed most of what her mother prepared, though the blonde was remiss in admitting to her slight favouritism when it came to cookery. It crossed the Heiress' mind that perhaps her mother thought he had left because the food wasn't good enough or some such nonsense, but hearing Pansy sing cheerfully again as she went about the kitchen, Bulma hadn't the heart to tell her such efforts held little sway over Vegeta's want to stay there.

Dinner conversation had perked up again as well, and surprisingly, even Vegeta began to engage in it to some small degree. When Pansy laid plates before him with a bright smile, giving an affectionate and motherly squeeze to his shoulder as she always did, the Saiyan now offered her a curt nod and a grunt or so, whereas before she had only ever received aloof indifference or expectancy. To Doctor Briefs' chuckling comments on the Prince's hearty appetite, he gained the odd glance or a subtle smirk in acknowledgement as well, instead of a glare or some semblance of a snarl; when he hadn't previously been ignored.

At one point, Vegeta even passed the salt to Bulma, herself—without so much as a sneer or a 'get it yourself, Woman', the Heiress had found herself staring stupidly at him with disbelief. At least until the Saiyan frowned and waved the shaker at her impatiently, snapping her out of the surprised silence.

Bulma noted these changes, tiny though they might be—sure, he wasn't exactly the life of the party, but neither was Vegeta openly rude or constantly indifferent and ornery since coming back. At the very least, he seemed to be responding to those around him with a significant decrease in his previous hostility, and that was more than she could've asked for where the surly Saiyan was concerned.

Between the two of them, there had been no serious or noteworthy arguments of late either. He still refused to take Fridays off, but he was much less prone to chasing her for maintenance and making other obnoxious demands… it was early in the piece yet, though. For the moment, Bulma expected it to be another week or two before Vegeta's impatience started get the better of him again. Even so, she couldn't help but enjoy the refreshing change while it seemed to be lasting.

The unsure, lonesome gaps left in her days seemed to disappear once he was back as well, and although a few still remained where Yamcha's absence left them, the Heiress no longer felt loneliness looming over her in every waking moment; isolating and stark.

Focussed upon her work and the Prince, she found she missed the Bandit a little less than she would've otherwise, and her transition into single life was not so devastating as it once seemed. Certainly, there were the odd moments when Bulma could only stop and sigh, swallowing a lump in her throat as a precious memory surfaced with the glimpse of an old photo here, perhaps his face in a magazine or commercial there… but where once she might have longed to have him home, she now accepted Yamcha's scarcity with ease, content enough in knowing he was doing okay.

All around, things had definitely started to improve, and without the misunderstandings, extra issues and lingering hurts—the negatives that strained upon their odd relationship—the Heiress found herself growing more fond of the Prince, and more comfortable without Yamcha, each day.

"Oh Rex, how could you?" came the melodramatic wailing of an actress as she rans across the screen, wearing a red dress that caught Bulma's eye with some envy.

"It's not what you think! Natalie…!" he called after her, a brunette behind him hugging the covers to her nude form as the man fell to his knees. "What have I done?  _Nataliiiie_!"

From her position on the couch, snuggled up with a blanket as slippered feet were tucked up beneath, Bulma nearly spat out her hot coco with laughter; form twitching with amusement as she struggled to put down her mug without spilling any. Her hand fanned at her mouth when she swallowed it in a large gulp that seared her throat, but she hardly noticed the burn as she cackled gleefully to herself, throwing herself back and kicking a leg out.

"Serves you right, you jerk!" she crowed, grinning from ear to ear and throwing a cushion at the television playfully. "I can't believe this show is still running! Seriously, Waves and Rocks…? You made nine seasons of this?! Ha!"

Floating through the kitchen window, Pansy's chipper tone rang out clearly as she watered her roses, yelling out from afar. "Did she find the letter from Kate?"

Settling back into the couch, the Heiress would cock her head back to shout in reply, resting an arm casually over the back to the lounge. "Yeah, Mom, Rex got caught out in the act! Natalie just walked out on him!"

"That naughty boy!" the blonde tittered back, seemingly shocked as she poked her head through the kitchen window briefly, "Oh my, and that Natalie has his grandmother's ring too! But he's so handsome… and Laura did warn Natalie at the party!"

"Mom, how can you watch this stuff? It's terrible!" she laughed, snatching up the remote and ruffling perky blue curls. "I'm changing the channel!"

"Record it for me, Sweetie! I don't want to get all muddled up like last time!" tapping the window pane, her mother would send a smile before turning away to attend more of her garden.

"'Kay." Bulma hollered back lazily, waving the remote at the screen with a negligent click, saving the program to system memory.

Over the distance then, Bulma heard the blonde addressing somebody else. "And while we're on the subject of handsome men, good morning, Vegeta! My, you're looking stronger every day!" the high pitched giggle was all the warning the Heiress would have as a frantic mashing of buttons ensued, flipping through the channels in the hope of finding something more suitable for the Prince to catch her watching.

Bulma nearly threw the remote away when she heard the screen door go, clattering shut as she took up her mug and tried to look natural, sipping casually at it and watching a lion tackle a gazelle upon the screen.

Her ears perked to the muted sound of steps behind her, and blue brows furrowed—somehow, his approach sounded off, but she barely got the chance to turn her head back and look before a pair of sneakers were thrust forward and held beside her face; hanging by two gloved fingers. A pungent stink rolled off of them in waves, filling her nostrils almost as soon as she'd registered the sight of them. Surprised and disgusted, the Heiress flinched back and away from them with a small squeak, instinctively smacking at them to get them away from her nose and spilling some coco on her blanket.

The tattered shoes went flying from the Saiyan's limp hand to bounce off of the couch and onto carpet, but the awful sweaty smell of them remained to linger, and frowning up at him Bulma was almost surprised to find a rather bored expression lining his royal features. "Ew, Vegeta! What the hell; just walk in and stick your gross sneakers in my face, why don't you!?" she shrieked, waving her hand to clear the stink away from her and grimacing with repulsion. "Ugh, have you  _never_  heard of  _socks_!?"

Standing behind the back of her lounge, the Prince let his arm retract back to be crossed over his scarred chest with the other, and giving a cursory glance over the screen—somewhat relieved to find it was showing 'entertainment' of decent value, for once—Vegeta offered a small and unsympathetic shrug.

"Socks or not, I refuse to wear them again." Dark eyes squinted toward the scene of wildlife, watching with mild interest as a gazelle was slowly torn to pieces by hungry predators. "As you've so  _astutely_  noted, Woman, they are indeed… 'Gross'."

Glaring up at him spitefully for a moment before she righted herself with a sigh, Bulma picked at the coco stain on her blanket with a frustrated pout, leaning to set what remained of her drink down on the coffee table. "Then put on some new ones! Jeez… I  _really_  did not need to smell that… put them outside or burn them or something, Vegeta! If that stink seeps into my carpet, I'll…!"

But the Saiyan was quick to interrupt, flippant to her discomfort. "So you agree that I require new footwear… Good. That saves time." He mused with a growing smirk, allowing his gaze to fall upon blue curls with an expectant flex of his brow. "Your mother granted me a stock of appropriate attire, including sixteen pairs of 'sneakers', at the outset of my training under gravity… I highly doubt they do anything to enhance stealth, but in any case, those were the very last of them."

Gesturing a gloved hand toward the discarded shoes as he rounded the couch—worn ragged with warped shape, holes forming in the soles and laces entirely missing from one—the Prince cleared his throat and lifted his foot to settle it on the arm of her lounge. When the hand shifted to point downward, the Heiress could only stare morbidly as a cheeky wriggle of his toes was given to draw attention to the fact that they were uncovered.

Gorgeous features twisted into an irritated frown, slightly put off by the fact that it was exceptionally weird to see Vegeta's toes. She wasn't quite sure  _why_  it seemed so weird, but faced with a perfect view of his foot as idle fingers pawed at her blanket, she was absolutely sure that it  _was_. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen them before, right? Well, maybe once or twice…?

But caught by an odd curiosity, and perhaps just because his bare foot was  _there_ —not to mention the amusing face he might make—Bulma indulged in the opportunity to get a whiff of it, expecting to find the same awful smell so she could tell him to have a shower and maybe buy herself more relaxation time. Leaning forward slowly, pressing a hand to the couch cushion, she brought her nose closer to its target; a hesitant twitch of it betraying what she'd done as the Saiyan's eyes widened. To her surprise though, the only bad scent in the room was coming from the sneakers themselves, and with a confused blink, she noted that there was no dried sweat or filth about his toes either, and even the nails were neatly clipped and smooth.

_When the hell did he get nail clippers!?_

With a furrowing of brows she glanced upward, finding an awkward look plastered on his face for it all, and the Heiress drew a slow breath as she considered just coming out and asking the obvious question. Her mouth ghosted the words as Vegeta stared her down, visibly unsure of himself now as all his previous cockiness fled him and his toes curled somewhat self-consciously—it was very faint too, but she swore she saw him blush some.

"…Hang on." She finally managed with a suspicious squint, shaking her head some and looking about as perplexed as he was. "If your shoes are so nasty, why don't your feet stink?"

The foot was sharply withdrawn as the Prince gaped at her a moment, stuttering a few syllables with an affronted—and bemused—scowl. "Wha—You—I…! I  _washed_  them, if you must know…!" he snapped defensively, flashing his teeth at her as fists formed either side of him. "I don't know what  _you_  were expecting, but they are  _clean_ , and I won't sully them with footwear in such a disgusting state! Now if you're done  _sniffing_  me, Woman, go and fetch me a replacement pair!"

Settling back to sit on her knees, Bulma sent him a disapproving look to hold hands to her hips, hissing back to chastise him. "Hey! It's not my fault you wore them out too quickly! If you want another pair of shoes, you can ask for them nicely!" Tilting her head up stubbornly as he bristled to growl back at her, the Heiress was quick to wag a finger, tapping her ear expectantly and closing her eyes to wait. "No. No grunting, no growling. Say my name. Go on, Vegeta, you know what it is… 'Can I have some new shoes, Bulma?'"

Gritting his teeth, the Prince looked her up and down with a dark glare before settling some, reigning in an annoyed seethe and fighting back another insult. Turning his head to distract himself with the television—just an excuse not to look at her—he conceded slowly to ground the words out through clenched teeth, reluctant.

"…I want some new shoes."

Bulma was merciless though, blue eyes snapping open to correct him with an authoritative gaze. " _Can I have_  new shoes,  _Bulma_." She repeated slowly, as if teaching a toddler some new words, and though she didn't really want to be condescending, sometimes he truly did remind her of a spoiled three year old. This time she simply refused to relent to his stubborn attitudes.  _No, he has to be told. He's doing really well, and this is the next step…_

His whole left cheek seemed to twitch then, ticking the corner of his mouth and flashing across his eye in agitation, and the Heiress could guess she was effectively poking the beast with a stick. Though the Prince maintained his fixation on the television, a considerate wag of his jaw hinted that he may humour her, and Bulma found herself pleasantly surprised by the possibility, her frown fading into a fascinated—and somewhat eager—stare.

After a few more moments and a bracing roll of his shoulders, Vegeta's lips parted and she could almost see the words swirling on his tongue. His eyes drifted upwards in slight defeat, half rolling for it all, and he closed them in frustration. "…Can I have new shoes,  _now_." He growled it low like a demand, but the question was in there somewhere. That was some small progress, but Bulma couldn't help being disappointed that he had not conceded to her name just yet, a slight slump overcoming her as it finally left him.

 _Well, Bulma, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth,_ her mind swiftly told her, and with a hidden sigh she offered him a light smile and a nod.

"That's much better, Vegeta. Alright, I'll get you some more sneakers later on, okay?" shifting to get comfortable again, she gave an idle tussle to the back of her hair and went to reach for the remote, but the Saiyan moved quickly, snatching it up before she could lay hands to it.

"Hey..!" She pouted up at him, but it didn't hold the effect it usually had on Yamcha, and glaring down at her with a haughty grimace, Vegeta held the clicker high. It was his turn to be condescending then, feeding her back that same patient tone one gave a small child when they misbehaved. "No, Woman, I need them  _ **now**_. I asked you  _nicely_ , so get up."

With a defiant huff, Bulma waved an arm to reach for it, instinctive as she bounced in her seat trying to grab it off of him, but to no avail. Uncomfortable with how the Woman was very nearly rubbing up against him, the Prince stifled a grunt to flick his wrist, tossing the remote clear across the room; much to her chagrin. The Heiress watched helplessly as it sailed far beyond her reach, bouncing off the top of a stereo speaker to be hidden somewhere behind a potted caladium. Heaving an averse sigh, she threw herself back to fall into the folds of her blanket and sprawl there, thinking of any excuse she could not to go down the street just yet—she had to put on make up and get dressed first, plus calling ahead to organise a bulk sale.

Squinting up at the ceiling, lips pursed in thought, fingers came to drum pensively upon the hem of her tank top. Stalling, she glanced up at him with an inquisitive look, propping herself up on her elbows. "What size shoe do you wear again?"

Almost automatically, in one of the most monotone voices she'd ever heard him speak in, the Prince responded immediately with a slight shrug, crossing his arms over his chest. "GX class forty-eight, bipedal male, expandable."

Blinking up at him blankly, Bulma's cerulean eyes narrowed as she tried to make sense of whatever babble he'd just spouted, leaning to glance down at his feet again. Slowly wrapping her lips around the words, she guessed instead, choosing to ignore the odd piece of information about alien fashion. "So… size nine, maybe…?"

Cocking his head back with a dismissive furrow of his brows, a derisive snort was quick to follow. "How the hell should I know?" he spat impatiently, grimacing down at her as if  _she_  was the one spouting nonsense.

The Heiress fought the urge to kick out at his legs, frustrated already— _So much for being less demanding! I knew it was too good to last!_  "Check the shoes!" she cried, throwing her hands up in a fit of pique and pointing down at the tattered monstrosities he'd presented her. "The size will be in written on the insole, Vegeta! Ugh, do I have to do everything around here!?"

To match the vivid roar of a lion as it sounded loudly from the television behind him, the Prince flinched with some shock for her suggestion, dark eyes widening as sharp canines were bared in a defensive snarl. "What?! You've got to be joking; I will  _not_  be touching those vile festivals of bacteria again! It's bad enough I had to carry them in for your inspection, though your lack of urgency seems to have made that effort for nothing…!" he too would point at them accusingly, gloved finger thrust toward them as if they might carry a plague of disease. " _You_  check them!"

"Ugh! You're the one wearing  _gloves_ , you jerk! There's no way I'm going to poke my nose in there just for some stupid little number, they're  _your_  sweaty old shoes!  _You_  do it!" grabbing a throw pillow, Bulma would flip it onto herself and bury her face in it to hide from the smell. Holding it there defiantly as the Saiyan growled above her, she welcomed the comforting blackness and tried to focus on the warmth of her blanket instead of him. Voice muffled, more calmly she would add, "…If you can't tell me your shoe size, than I can't order you new ones, Vegeta. It's that simple."

Fed up with her unruly nature already, the Prince's hands clenched into fists, falling to tremble at his sides again as he grit his teeth with vehemence. Narrowing his dark gaze upon the throw pillow, she would've seen him visibly tense like a force was building up within him, winding tight and threatening to snap, had it not obscured her vision.

She  _always_  had to be this way; to fight him on everything, any little triviality that she could for no more than argument's sake... He still didn't trust her as far as he could throw her, and this kind of behaviour didn't help her in that regard—no, if anything, she was just proving, once again, how worthless and how much of a hindrance she could be; the Tufflish little snipe.

With haste and a great sense of vindication, the flame haired Saiyan set about her quickly, gloved hand darting forward to grab the golden tassels of the pillow and pull it away from her so that she could hide behind it no longer. Fingers twisting harshly about the fabric, his arm would yank it back only to be met with meagre resistance; the Woman clinging to it and struggling to keep it. A stronger tug would see it torn away without much effort however, leaving the Heiress uncovered once again with gorgeous features twisted in offence. Gaping a little for his audacity in stealing her pillow, Bulma made a vindictive swipe to snatch it back, though the Prince withdrew it from her reach only to lightly bat her in the face with it in return. Her arms came up too late as she fell back into her lazy sprawl, still flinching for the playful blow and pouting in defeat.

"I want my new shoes, Woman." He issued with a hint of finality, the barest hint of a smirk flirting with his mouth, and with a negligent toss of the pillow to the other side of her couch, it seemed he had won.

With a harassed groan, she took to a flurry of restless fidgeting and drummed pink slippered feet on the couch cushion in something of a small tantrum, struggling with her body as the will to get up just wasn't there. There was no way in hell she was touching those sneakers; he could hold her at blast point and she would still refuse. Watching her odd spate of languid flailing, Vegeta's brow creased further, and irritated by the show—as well as slightly unsure of what to make of such odd behaviour—found himself taking a wary step back; cautious of her. For all he knew, this might be some sort of human hexing ritual.

As he watched her little fit with bemusement, he held his tongue until it passed and wondered if this kind of display happened often or just where he was concerned. To him, the request seemed simple enough, but it was clear the Woman was finding great difficulty in acquiescing to it… but then of course, he had already established her laziness.

 _Look at her, acting like a child… I don't know why I should even bother with her, if she's so useless she can't even manage to sit up;_ he growled internally, now breathing through his mouth with shallow pacing to avoid the overpowering stench about the room.

With a final jerk of her frame and one last muted moan of reluctance, Bulma allowed herself to go limp, an arm flung to hang over the side of the couch to let fingers graze the floor as she glared up at him with a bitter twist of her mouth.  _And of course, he would just stand there like an ass! He wanders in, ruins my nice warm morning with a mug of coco to throw his gross shoes in my face, and now it's_ _ **my**_ _problem? This is so unfair…I just want to relax…!_

Blue eyes flicked over his form to take in the state of him, and she couldn't help but wonder what the rush was—he wore black spandex shorts and a pair of white gloves, nothing more. In fact, Vegeta barely wore any clothes at all during most of his stay at Capsule Corp… for the life of her; she couldn't see how training bare foot would make any real difference to him.

_I mean, jeez, he practically works out in the nude, anyway. What's the big deal?_

But on that thought, her mind swayed towards old habits, and Bulma wondered if there may be one last way she could worm out of getting up just yet. After all, she wasn't wearing all that much herself—a grey tank top, a comfort bra and yoga shorts worked well to her advantage. Saiyan or not, Vegeta was still very much a man.

A wry smile curved her lips with cunning as she shifted some, lifting her hand from the floor to let fingers suggestively drag her blanket aside. Propping a leg up to cross over her knee, she turned to lie on her side, posing with flirtatious expertise while putting a great deal of effort into making it all look natural. Above her, the Saiyan's brow twitched in curiosity for her sudden shift in demeanour, but that was all he gave, unrelenting as his arms crossed over his chest like a barrier to her coy charms.

Resting on an elbow, one finger would twirl a perky lock of blue as she sent the Prince a saccharine smile. For reasons he couldn't quite place, Vegeta found the look she gave him immediately unnerving—there was almost something evil about it, though it boasted nothing but sweetness, and it made his biceps tense and his spine tingle anxiously. Had he a tail, the tip of it would be twitching to and fro with cautious unease.

"…I know what you're trying to do." She purred, teasingly poking out her tongue as the Saiyan cocked one brow, awaiting an explanation. "Getting me to look at those sneakers… You just want me to bend over in these shorts so you can get a nice view, huh? I mean, I don't blame you… I  _am_ a very beautiful girl." A self-assured tilt of her head saw blue eyes close in feigned modesty, as if it were so obvious it didn't even need saying.

For a moment, she wondered how he may react—she had expected a defensive sort of horror to sweep his form, quickly hidden behind a veil of indignant anger. There was always the possibility of a surprise though. Perhaps the Prince would keep his cool, grunt dismissively, and shrug it off like she never said a word. By some miracle stretch, what if she caught him out in a lie, and was actually right about such perverted intent? It was such a mixed bag of chance, it left her feeling giddy with a rush of excitable warmth swimming in her veins, eager to see the result of her flirtatious suggestion unfold.

But despite her hopes, Vegeta was—at first—unmoved by her statement, a quirk of his mouth betraying some bemusement as the words clicked together in his head. Surely she hadn't just accused him of lecherous behaviour with a smile on her face, as if she were content for him to eye her over as if checking a diamond for any clouding or flaw…? Was it some perverse pleasure of hers instead, to be drooled over so obviously? Quite likely, given her crude nature… instinct had his blood bubbling to retort, flash a sneer her way and tell her not to be so ridiculous. But wary of her now, and having braced for such unpredictable behaviour, the Saiyan simply refused to be caught off guard by her wherever possible.

Biting the inside of his cheek as her stared down, dark eyes widened a fraction as the only hint of the aversion she was hoping for, the Prince offered the offending footwear a brief glance before his attention scoured her splayed form.

… _Vulgar as she is, this is probably just some attempt to get a rise out of me,_ he conceded to himself mentally, biting back on his temper as it flared through his muscles like wildfire.  _No, if it were genuine, she'd react with anger._ He studied her features closely, squinting with an incredulous leer as if she may suddenly lunge at him and sink hidden fangs into his flesh, and her little rouse gained some transparency for the expectant look she wore. _So, accounting for her vanity and laziness… she must be trying to charm her way out of her task with 'good looks'. Well, perhaps I should rectify her notions of grandeur._

And much to Bulma's horror instead, a wry smirk curled the corner of his mouth, and she felt her own coy smile vanish immediately to the low rumbling of his chuckle; dark and amused. "…And I know what you're trying to do as well. Nice try, Woman."

"Wha…?" taken aback as her seductive pose did nothing to sway him at all, Bulma blinked helplessly, feigning innocence as he caught her out. "What do you mean? I'm not doing anything…? I was just relaxing and minding my own business… and then you came in with your perverted little plan to check me out." She mused casually, as if it were obvious—internally though, she cursed him for it. It was one thing for her gorgeous figure to fail her like this, but quite another to be  _caught_  using it.

"On  _this_  backwater planet, perhaps your looks are considered fair enough that they make for an effective bargaining chip. Your little group generally does consist of slack-jawed hicks and lecherous cretins; no doubt their fawning over your 'beauty' has made such bartering a habit." He scoffed lightly, knowing now he held all the cards—he wouldn't be caught in her honey trap like those other fools. No, it took far more than a batting of eyelids to change the mind of a Saiyan Prince. "By all rights, they certainly wouldn't be persuaded by your obnoxious personality…"

"Hey!" she scowled suddenly, shifting to prop herself up further on her elbow defensively, playful mood dissipating as her ploy held—if anything—the opposite effect upon the Prince. "Now you hold it right there, Buster, you have some kind of nerve telling  _me_  I'm the obnoxious one here…!"

"I'm not the one that goes around trying to bribe people with my body, am I?" Closing his eyes with self satisfaction and giving an idle shrug, Vegeta's smirk grew.

The Heiress' lips parted with a retort, but as the words sunk in, cerulean eyes went wide to leave her voice stuck in her throat. There was no doubting Vegeta was a little smarter than the average Monkey… but to catch her out so quickly was certainly impressive, even for him. Staring up at him, slightly mortified now, she decided to play it off as a rare miss—which it totally  _was_.

 _There's no way he's gay… right?_ The thought struck her with some horrifying mental images as she stared blankly, but she quickly decided it was more likely he was just too much of a blockhead to care.  _All work and no play makes Vegeta a dull boy… That makes sense._

To save face—and also address her disbelief—Bulma gave a dismissive, if slightly embarrassed, giggle. "For the record, it usually works… but fine, one more thing to add the list of why you're weird. Any  _normal_  guy would be begging to check me out." She mused with a careless shrug.

"Unfortunately for you, Woman, compared to some of the specimens I've seen over my travels to  _many_  parts of the galaxy…" he turned on his heel, arms folded and scarred flesh stretched taut over the sculpted muscle of his back as it turned to her, a nonchalant tone held for calling her bluff. "…In all honesty, I find you rather plain. Go ahead. I've no need or want to peruse your bland form any more than I already have to."

And adding that insult to injury, Bulma's jaw dropped in shock. Was he blind? No, just a liar… he must've been. She was one of the most beautiful girls alive—well, according to her mirror, anyway. But then he made such a fuss about keeping his word, perhaps he really  _didn't_  find her attractive. Affronted by this possibility, the Heiress stuttered to repeat him, simply unable to fully process the gall behind what he's said.

"… _Plain…_?  _Bland_ …!?" she gaped at the sight of his back to her still, shock and horror washing over her body to leave her cheeks flushed with the heat of it. Though she knew he wouldn't see, a thumb was jut toward herself. "Well, I don't know what kind of freak shows the rest of the galaxy offers, Vegeta, but they must be pretty damn interesting if you think  _Bulma Briefs_  is  _ **plain**_! What, do I not have enough tentacles for you!? You're not exactly Prince Charming for looks yourself, while we're on the subject; if I'm 'plain', you're just straight up ugly!"

Without even turning back to her, she watched the Prince's shoulder rise with another chuckle—apparently, he found this funny.  _Bastard_. Standing his ground much like the lion gracing her television screen, she traced the back of his form with ire as she heard his tongue click.

"And here I thought I was 'kinda cute'… What a pity." He levelled her own words back at her so cleanly, they hit her ears like a slap to the face, and Bulma winced for it.

Internally though, the Prince wore an evil grin. Her temper flared fantastically, and he could feel the hazed flicker of her ki for such frustrations… it seemed her vanity was as much her undoing as it was a great source of ego. Tucking that realisation away for later, he continued to watch the predator on screen, smirking as he saw it overpower a rival. Sure, perhaps he was being a little dishonest with her, but it was well worth the reaction—her bluster and ire made for a far more familiar thing to deal with, easing the strains of being sociable with her.

"Check the shoes, Woman."

Gorgeous features blanched with dismay for him getting the last word, Bulma's hand quickly took to removing one of her pink slippers, and unable to think of anything more to express her rage, it was promptly thrown at the back of his head.

The lightweight slipper struck his shoulder instead, not even a flinch drawn as it bounced off thick skin harmlessly, and between the Heiress' glare and the silence, the Saiyan let slip a quiet sigh; knowing full well they had met an impasse. If it wasn't made clear enough by her footwear aided protest, her lack of movement confirmed it otherwise. Tapping a gloved finger on his bicep, Vegeta would look back over his shoulder at the frowning woman, and though Bulma sent an evil leer his way, the Heiress quickly turned her gaze to one side and refused to look at him. He rolled his eyes before slowly turning his body back to face her, his amusement having faded once again—banter aside, his patience had worn thin now.

"Are you done?" his brow quirked at her as if he saw nothing more than a sulking toddler.

"No." Crossing her arms in kind, she flicked him a haughty glance and shifted to the edge of the couch. With a light wobble of her head, tussled locks swaying, she stood with all the dignity she could muster in one slipper, a self righteous and half-lidded gaze sweeping over him with harsh judgement. "I'm not buying you  _anything_  now. I don't care how 'nicely' you 'asked'. Nobody calls a pretty girl  _plain_  and gets away with it, Vegeta."

The Saiyan rounded on her, clenching teeth with a feral twitch of his muscled form, but as the Woman held her nose high, he sensed a trap had been sprung. Somehow, though he had clearly been the victor of this verbal spat, the conniving snake had still won the war of the sneakers to remain unmoved. Had he underestimated her cunning? As the awful thought hit him that this point may have been her intent all along—goading him into insulting her past the point of being obliged to his favour—a subtle itch trailed the back of his neck to stifle such anger.

 _Clever of her… underhanded, yes, but even so…_ Dark eyes narrowed and the subtle hint of sneer threatened to curve his lip for it, but the Prince quickly regained distraction by the wildlife on her television screen. To match her, a lioness slinked about with a controlled gait, watching the hunters from before, as if it had been on her call that their feast had been won.

After many arguments, Bulma knew him well enough to manipulate with finesse, it seemed. He had given her more than enough insight, by pure habit of rising to her verbal challenges, for the woman to counter him effectively if only she planned ahead. Such a thing only reaffirmed his want to be cautious of her. Silently, he cursed himself for such carelessness.

While she would never beat him in terms of a fight or show of strength, her cunning and prowess on a mental level was not so easy to ascertain. She made such an idiot of herself by day, it lulled one into a false sense of security, enough to make Vegeta oftentimes forget the sharpness of mind her technological projects displayed. A mistake that could've cost him dearly, were he not recognising it early, and this flash of her true colours would not be lightly forgotten.

His desire to get the last word had cost him any chance of attaining new sneakers promptly. She had pulled a feint with her talk of lechery and looks, and he had never seen the real blow coming; made by his own hand no less, and she had known enough to count on that fault.

More than that, the Woman knew he would not apologise for his slight against her. Thus, she  _knew_  he would back himself into a corner, refusing to lower himself, and she could continue with her daily habits of idle sloth once he had.

It was painfully clear to him—he had underestimated her, only to have been flawlessly outwitted by the Earthling. She had outclassed him in tactical ability, a rare and potent thing, and easily misled him into what seemed to be victory, when in reality he was causing his own effortless defeat.

If she could trick him so easily into shooting himself in the foot, the dangers she could pose were she to ever get into his head and figure him out were astounding. She had already talked him into many things more than he would've ever normally agreed to. If she could lure out the fragile and tumultuous things he kept locked away, even from himself, and sink her teeth in to poison him from the inside out… If she could trick him into letting down his guard, even for an instant, to glimpse what lay behind them… No amount of strength could possibly help him against such an assault.

If anybody could truly hurt the flesh beneath his amour; to destroy him, this Woman may well be the one. He would be utterly defenceless against such foreign and subtle technique, not even able to recognise them until the damage was being done.

That possibility scared the Prince more than even he truly realised, but thankful for the reminder, Vegeta resolved to renew his efforts at keeping her well at arm's length. He could never allow her venom to seep through the cracks of his façade.

In the midst of their silence, sneakers left by the wayside as the Saiyan stared and the Heiress made a point of ignoring him, the soft steps echoing from the stairway seemed to demand attention by contrast. Accompanied by a lazy yawn, Dr Briefs wandered into sight, eyes heavy-lidded from a night without sleep. "Arguing again, Dear? That's good… for a while there, your mother and I had begun to worry something odd was going on." He mused across the small distance, an unlit cigarette bobbing on his lips as he spoke.

Dressed rather casually in a fresh white coat, a pale teal polo shirt underneath and a pair of dark slacks to finish it, the Scientist cast a bespectacled gaze toward the pair and made his way towards them. A familiar streak of black graced his left shoulder in the form of a cat, and catching a blink from his daughter and a glare from his house guest, hands would come to be pocketed with an idle chuckle.

Shifting to turn her attention, Bulma sent her father a small frown, though seemed somewhat relieved to see him. "He started it…" she pouted quickly, waving a dismissive hand at the Saiyan beside her. A grunt came of him, but Vegeta seemed to refocus upon the television, most likely to avoid being strung into the conversation.

The Doctor raised his brow to question, but upon drawing breath to do so, a wiggle of his thick moustache quickly replaced anything he would've said. With a blink his head drew back, as if in some disbelief, and even his feline companion's ears flattened with a twitch of its own whiskers.

The pungent stink of the matter at hand seemed to have found him, and from it, the man drew some clue as to what issue the two were bickering about.

Hesitant to ask, the Scientist glanced between them from his place behind the lounge, but ultimately settled his gaze on the Prince's back. "…Well, with the boy's varied diet, it's not that surprising he might get a little gassy from time to time." he idly scratched his cheek then to offer his daughter a blank look. "Hardly worth an argument, Dear… Better in than out."

Cerulean eyes opened wide as Bulma gaped a little, surprised by her father's uncanny ability to be so flippant about these things, and unable to stop herself, whipped her head around to catch Vegeta's reaction to such an accusation. The Saiyan's whole body tensed, and likewise, a wide-eyed stare of his own was sent over his shoulder. A mixture of offence, disgust and indignation, the Prince's brows could hardly lower themselves enough to knit back into a scowl. A grin slowly took its place on the Heiress' features for it, and a silent rocking betrayed laughter she was trying very hard not to voice as she slapped a hand over her mouth.

Waving a hand to get the awful smell away from him and unperturbed by the harsh look received, Dr. Briefs whistled lightly to himself with good humour, brows rising. "Hoo… Well, if nothing else, my boy, you're definitely the victor between you and Goku in  _that_ event…" another chuckle escaped him, and it was clear the old Scientist saw no danger in the light jest.

Vegeta whirled about to face them fully then, unable to ignore such insult, and with a vicious growl thrust a finger towards the offending footwear. "It wasn't me, you old fool! The stench is coming from  _ **them**_!" he barked, tensing with remarkable restraint as the urge to leap over the couch and throttle the man jolted through him.

Shaking with anger, the Prince took a threatening step forward, and that was enough to move Bulma in turn. Even as she stood quickly to place some sort of barrier between the surly Prince and her father, holding hands up to halt him, the Saiyan continued to snarl over her. "And what exactly are you insinuating, bringing Kakarot into this?! You think he's better than me? I  _ **am**_  his superior and everyone shall see that in due course, you insolent-!"

"Whoa, Vegeta…! Calm down, he's just joking! Chill out!" the Heiress moved to mirror him, wearing a concerned though stern scowl of her own to block her father from his line of sight—she knew Vegeta didn't ascribe to an 'out of sight, out of mind' mentality, but at least getting up in his face might reign him in a little.

While the Doctor stood behind, arching a brow and quite used to flashes of temper from both his daughter and her guest, he seemed content to watch it unfold with mild curiosity and notable patience. Bulma's tactic seemed to work, as Vegeta's livid glare shifted to the blue eyes in front of him, and with raised hackles and bristling hair, he would issue her with a sharp waring hiss.

"Get out of my way, Woman!"

Bulma's hand rose quickly as if scolding a barking dog, pointing a finger up at him in her own warning as her eyes narrowed and her other hand found her hip. "Don't you talk to my dad like that, and don't talk to me like that either! It was a  **joke** , Vegeta! If you keep carrying on like this, I'll take away  _all_  your clothes and you can fight the Androids naked!" as if to add some finality to it, she would stomp her foot, and whether it was the sound of that or the word 'naked' itself was unclear, but she drew a flinch from the Saiyan all the same.

Halted by it and wary of her apparent ability to twist this horribly back on him, her threat found purchase enough to silence him for the moment. Having drawn the full weight of a murderous leer upon herself, Bulma fought the urge to put distance between them, her mind tugging at the very fibres of her being to back away. Silence, she knew, was far more dangerous when Vegeta was angry than having him yell and curse—the fists at his sides were white knuckled and trembling when she chanced a glance downward. He was positively seething, but there in his dark eyes she swore she saw it again.

That tiny shimmer of confusion, hurt or whatever it was, swirling amongst the smoke of his anger.

Withdrawing her finger she held her head high, drawing a slow breath through her nose and engaging in a tiny staring contest with him, before clearing her throat.

"Dad…" She began, turning her head ever so slightly to one side to address him though her gaze couldn't be torn away from his. Vegeta didn't know it, and she may never tell him, but she felt as if she could truly see  _him_  in those moments his looks betrayed him—there was an old saying that eyes were the window to one's soul, and she believed that where the Prince was concerned. "What size shoe do you wear?"

With a thoughtful blink for the unexpected question, the Scientist would hum to himself, a hand rising to idly stroke his feline companion as if the act would bring the answer more swiftly. "Oh, well Dear, I'm not terribly sure… Your mother always handled that sort of thing. Truth be told, I haven't bought myself a pair of shoes in almost fifteen years now." He grimaced a little at that, removing the unfinished cigarette to gesture it lightly. "Most of them I don't even wear, working with machinery and that. I, er… tend to hide them until I can give them away to the interns."

The confusion in Vegeta's gaze grew stronger as the conversation turned, anger slipping through his fingers to be replaced with something more quizzical as he found himself studying the Woman's features incredulously. He watched her authoritative frown lessen, brightening into a half smile as an optimistic glow seemed to surround her, shifting her entire posture into a happier one. The sudden change seemed odd to him, as if her bursts of anger were no more than shallow things put on for show that she didn't truly feel.

Perhaps that was her secret—he could never read her accurately, because she controlled with perfect precision when and what he saw at a level of skill that even he had not achieved.

Yes, surely, that was her advantage over him. How else could she best him, if not through outright trickery, catching him unawares?

She flashed him a satisfied smile, tossing her attention back toward her father, and Vegeta found himself instinctively retracting from her. It was a slow thing, leaning back and away to gain some distance from her without his discomfort being obvious, but the paranoid whirlwind of his mind roared at him to reduce his proximity to the vexingly unknown threat this Woman was.

The Heiress chirped with hope, both hands resting against the sides of her waist in a can-do manner. "Great! You wouldn't happen to have a pair of sneakers lying around somewhere Vegeta could borrow?" … _problem solved without having to go anywhere, nice thinking Bulma!_ Her mind congratulated her privately, and the smile on her face grew.  _They look like they'd wear the same size… It'll be pretty close, anyway. But whatever, he can just deal with it, since he caused such a fuss._

Bringing the half-cigarette close to his mouth, Dr. Briefs tilted his head back to search the ceiling, thinking for a moment. "Now that you mention it, Dear, there might be a new pair of running shoes stashed downstairs. I put the last lot in the lockers so that if your mother found them, I could say they weren't mine." His moustache lifted in such a way that betrayed a wry smile, and chuckled. "Help yourself. Vegeta can have the lot of them, if they fit."

Almost smugly, Bulma turned back to the Prince, perky blue curls bouncing lightly to the motion. "There you go, Vegeta. Go with my Dad and you'll have all the shoes you need for at least a year."

She smirked haughtily, quite pleased with herself, but as was to be expected—she supposed—Vegeta's nose crinkled at such a suggestion. The Heiress was ready to match whatever excuse he gave, cocking her head belligerently as if to ward it off, but even before the Prince could voice his protests, her father intervened.

"…Actually, Dear, I was just passing through." He offered apologetically, gesturing toward the door and flinching a little as she cast him a sudden pout over her shoulder. "I have a press conference at noon down at Headquarters… I want to make sure the new airbike and SilverStar eight designs aren't put on the backburner. Seems all anybody can talk about is the fortieth anniversary of the Dynocap, lately." A slight grimace gave way to a sigh, and Scratch gave a light sway of his tail.

Though Vegeta held his tongue for the moment, having absolutely no clue as to why any of that was important, Bulma would turn away from him and heave a dismayed groan. Crossing her arms limply beneath her bust, the blue haired Heiress let her head loll back and sent a glare upward at nothing, muttering something about forgetting to contact somebody in advertising about botched logo design before Saturday—or at least, that what the Saiyan's keen hearing made out of her quiet cursing, anyway.

"Can't you just do a video conference from the office like you normally do and get the board to handle the rest?" she asked, a pleading tone in her voice, but Bulma knew what his answer would be already.

Her father rarely left his home unless business was urgent or a big event was taking place, and the scientific community was expecting a celebratory breakthrough in honour of the Dynocap's creation. What awaited them later this year was a month-long series of social gatherings, press releases, interviews, and the unveiling of the deluxe vehicle range in C class capsules that had taken up the last year and a half of their research and development time…

…Which was already under great strains thanks to Vegeta's demands, repairs, and constantly upgraded 'needs'.

"I wish I could, Dear." The old Scientist conceded lightly, making a move to continue toward the small hallway. "Tell your mother I should be back by three, if I'm not pounced on and dragged off to approve every recent development while they have me there…" a lazy wave was offered as he left them, and despite Bulma's want to protest further, she couldn't come up with anything convincing enough before the sound the backdoor shut on her and signalled his departure.

Tiredly running hands over her face in defeat, Bulma gave a muffled huff to herself—she still didn't feel she had the energy to bother with anything but TV today, and Vegeta had once again swooped in to make her day more difficult. From between her fingers, she turned to shoot him a harassed frown, but when she looked Bulma found him suddenly further away than he had been before. She hadn't heard him move, and yet somehow, he seemed two or three steps back. Letting her hands fall away, she gave him a once over just to be sure. Not only did he retreat further back, it seemed, his previous anger had left him to be replaced by an unsure and expectant look, as if he was waiting on her to get back to him—in fact, it reminded her loosely of a school boy whose parents had forgotten to pick him up. Was she imagining things?

… _What's his deal? He's not getting sulky on me because I didn't rush off to get him brand spanking new shoes, is he? Jeez, he really_ _ **is**_ _like a spoiled little kid._

Tilting her head a little, she softened, somehow unable to be annoyed with him when he looked like that. There was something so lonely about it, with him just standing off to the side quietly as others talked that saddened her. It seemed that was always the case with him. As far back as she could remember since he'd gotten to Earth, Vegeta had never been part of the group or even part of any real conversation…

In fact, he'd gone quiet when her father had come in, shifting his attention to the screen instead, like he had expected not to be addressed at all. The only reason he'd spoken anything within the last few minutes was to defend against a perceived insult. When people talked to the Prince, he responded with either hostility enough to divert them, or a dismissive grunting that was terse and guarded. Bulma had never caught him saying more than a few harsh words to anyone, beside issuing orders or deriding Goku. It hit her then, the realisation physically causing her to blink with some surprise and suddenly she recalled how she'd gotten him to come back in the first place—she had said to him then that they needed to stop arguing so much, and just talk more often instead.

What she hadn't noticed was that the only person Vegeta  _ever_  'just talked' to was  _her_. The only person Vegeta willingly initiated  _any_  form of conversation with was her, and even if it did usually end in a spat, he  _kept_ doing it.

Cerulean eyes flitted to one side, spying the tattered sneakers he'd brought in, and she wondered of them now. It seemed like no big deal to her, at first, him training barefoot. But his feet were clean. Toenails clipped, even. Then she recalled his sparse room, empty for the most part, but everything was immaculate. He wore gloves so often she was nearly certain he slept in them. Everything had its proper place in his world, and did not deviate—even his attitude toward Goku seemed to suddenly make sense, a lowborn was not meant to be stronger than a Prince. Dirty shoes should not be put on clean feet.

They had an accord, and by Vegeta logic, that meant the only person he could present those shoes to, ask for new ones, and walk away from without embarrassment was  _her_.

"…Well? You heard the old man. Go and fetch me my shoes, Woman."

Blinking up at him, Bulma stared a moment before bringing a hand up to tussle the back of her hair considerately, and offering him a small and tired smile, finally relented. "…Okay, Okay…" she sighed light-heartedly, rolling her eyes as she turned, and beckoned him to follow. "But you're coming with me, Vegeta. I'm going all the way down there just so you can say they don't fit right and send me back for another pair."

Half expecting to take a few steps before turning around and urging him onward, the Heiress was pleasantly surprised to hear muted footsteps shadowing hers right from the moment she began to saunter toward the hall. Almost giddy with the small progress made, she'd glance back at him as they passed between a few pot plants, quietly awestruck at how effortless it was to get him to follow her lead and wondering if he was even conscious of it. She studied him a moment, watching as the Prince kept stride with her, arms crossed and mild curiosity given to the fixtures of her home as they passed by. He wore his usual scowl, not so much an angry thing as a silently stern, world weariness that seemed to suit him—Bulma couldn't really imagine him wearing anything else besides that and his haughty smirk.

Privately though, as she perused the regal lines of his visage, the Heiress wondered what he might look like were he ever to smile. A vivid imagination called up many approximations of it in her mind's eye, but none of them seemed quite right. She had the sense it would be a charming thing, subdued and surprisingly warm, tailored to a light chuckle as it brought a subtle boyishness back to him and softened his features. It would likely be the sort of smile given in a private moment, to an inside joke or a rare fond memory, or maybe a genuine compliment, and it would surely make the recipient of it smile back every time.

For reasons she couldn't place as such thoughts crossed her, Bulma wished that if he were ever to repay any of her kindness, he would do so with that smile.

Somehow, she knew, it would be more than enough.

But as the Saiyan's gaze travelled the hall, he spied her open stare, and the neutrality she had wondered of narrowed into hostility once again. "What do you want now, Woman?" he spat impatiently, shoulders rising in defence.

Blanching, Bulma whipped her head forward, making a point of staring straight ahead as she squeaked a quick, "Nothing! Just… checking… that you weren't lost… or anything…"

A derisive snort sounded behind her and he muttered lowly. "…A Saiyan's sense of bearing is far superior to that of an Earthling. I couldn't get lost if you paid me to." She could almost hear his smirk lilting on the end of it.

 _Believe me, Vegeta, I know…_ rolling her eyes to close them, the Heiress would shake her head lightly, making a mental note to avoid using the phrase 'get lost' to spare herself unwanted Saiyan facts in future.

Content with a comfortable, if not refreshing, reticence as they walked a few more minutes, Bulma slowed her pace as an elevator came into view before them, leading to the underground levels. When she stood before it, reaching to press the button, she turned to offer a patient smile to the Prince, but was surprised to find he had halted some steps back. Blue brows rose expectantly, but the Saiyan remained put, seemingly frozen in place as he stared not at her, but the steely doors in question.

She frowned. "Oh come on, Vegeta, seriously? Yes, you are coming down to the lab. Deal with it." Growing a little fed up with him now, Bulma would shift her weight to one leg, jutting out a hip and patting the closed door invitingly. Within seconds, a friendly chime signalled the elevator's arrival, and it opened to reveal a clinical white interior, save for black tiled flooring sporting uplights and a polished finish. Swinging a thumb at it, Heiress gave no room for argument now that they'd come this far. "Go on. Get in there, Buster."

Finally, dark eyes tore away enough to settle her with a vacant stare, as if she'd just spouted utter nonsense at him, and Bulma could've sworn she saw his Adam's apple bounce with a light swallow. The gears in his head were turning, and it was so obvious it made her brows knit together in question, thrusting an arm out as a second chime threatened to close the doors. "…What? You've never seen an elevator before?"

"Of course I have, woman!" he snarled back quickly, though his irritation faltered all too quickly for her liking. Drawing back a little, the Saiyan seemed to grimace as she held the doors open, looking to one side dismissively as the gravel of his voice dimmed. "…I was simply under the impression we would be taking stairs."

"What? No, Vegeta, the lab where the interns work with dad is like, three storeys underground." Scrunching up her nose a little for how fussy he could be, unable to understand his logic—three flights of stairs as compared with half a minute in an elevator? Naturally, the choice seemed simple enough. Seriously, who preferred stairs? "The elevator's quicker, now come on."

Hesitant, the Prince would pause a moment more before slowly moving forward to join her, and relieved, Bulma made her way inside and expected him to follow suit. Leaning an elbow against the side rail as she turned back again, however, such relief was shattered—standing at the threshold, the Saiyan stared at the metallic grate separating solid floor and black tile, eyeing the sliver of a gap with unease.

 _Made to rely on her damned technology again… curse her…_ his mind whispered it bitterly, but he knew there was more to it this time. How long had it been now? Years and years, of course, he thought he'd have gotten a grip on it by now. Shouldn't it have faded over such time, along with the rest of these ridiculous habits of his? He was free of his servitude now, and far more powerful. Such extreme measures for self preservation made no sense here. The Prince knew he was being irrational, but even now, he couldn't move past that tiny gap, only big enough for an insect to crawl through.

"What's wrong…?Vegeta?"

At the sound of his name, he glanced up at her, a distant and hollow look swirling in his smokey gaze that made her brow furrow in concern. Vegeta did not see this. Against the stark white walls of the tiny chamber, blurred by an old panic that had seized him, he saw the flash of blue awaiting him in the confined space and that was it—he could almost taste blood in the back of his throat, the phantom scent of a long dead bastard in the air around him. Behind closed eyes the streak of blue haunted him to form flesh. The sway of a long green braid behind as a devilish smile was sent his way from a head or so above his own height. The wet snap of his own bones breaking and the burn of the screams he tried so hard to withhold from greedy pierced ears.

" _What's wrong, Vegeta? Surely even a monkey like you knows how to push a button or two…"_

Jolted back like he might be set ablaze were he to step inside, the Prince shook his head forcefully and turned away, crossed arms shifting as gloved hands moved to grip biceps. He coughed a little, visibly shaken by something even as he realised what he'd done, trying to right himself. Quick glances were taken over his shoulder, hesitant as if the Heiress may suddenly shed her skin and become walking nightmare.

Instinct moved her to comfort, to question, to find out what had happened within him, her hand outstretched as she took a step forward, but he shied away quickly to turn side on and finally face her. When she saw his face again, whatever he had tried to hide from her had fled his features just as swiftly as it had come, and his dark eyes were clear once more to halt her there.

She blinked helplessly, a subtle shake of her head betraying her confusion, brows furrowed with a want to help and know as her hand curled back toward her chest. "Vegeta, are you okay? What—"

"Stairs." He interrupted quickly, decisive and clear, schooling his face to give nothing more on the matter. "Are there stairs leading down there, Woman, yes or no?"

Taken aback by it all and at a loss for what to really say or do, the blanched Heiress stuttered some to answer him. "Well… yeah, it's… a safety thing in case there's a… chemical leak or a small explosion… Nobody even uses them unless it's an emergency…" her hand rose weakly to point behind him, her head turning just enough to view him from the corner of her eye. "…Through that door on the left of you, Vegeta… But, what… just…?"

Leaving her no opportunity, the Saiyan turned on his heel, swiftly following the direction given and keen to leave her and her damned questions behind if need be. Bulma could do little more than simply stare after him in some disbelief and confusion as gloved hands slapped down on the bar handle, opening the large door with a shunt and letting it close shut behind as he disappeared into the dimly lit stairwell.

Remembering herself, a twitch run down her spine and spurred her to move, chasing after him as usual. Slippers were kicked off and cast aside as she went, so that she would lose no speed. Though she hurried down the steps, her body bouncing down them as a hand glided down the rail beside, her mind raced even faster to decipher what she'd witnessed. It wasn't quite claustrophobia. It wasn't him being stubborn. Panting by the time she was half way down, the winding descent a dark and lonely thing, she wondered why she was so hasty.

He would not discuss it with her, she knew. Why would he? But perhaps it was the realisation that urged her onward anyway—if ever he did want to confide, if ever he needed somebody to talk to, she was all he had. Whether he wanted to speak of it or not, it was her responsibility to be there just in case.

The fear in his eyes was something so foreign to her she simply could not just ignore and forget it, now that she knew it was hidden there beneath the surface. Like so many other things he hadn't yet divulged, this little slivers of a real person under that thick skin caught her and beckoned she investigate... just like the smile he never gave, there were horrors he never shared, but as she chased him in that moment, she wanted to know what they were.

She had missed him when he had gone, and she wanted to know him now that he'd returned.

As the last few step flew beneath swift feet, now as bare as his had been, they hit the cold floor of the locker room to stop; her hand still holding fast to the very end of the rail. "Vegeta!" she called out suddenly, surprised by how desperate it sounded when it left her, but blinking up she found him not meters away.

Not even bothering to look, foot planted on a wooden bench and tying the laces of the second shoe to match the other perfectly symmetrical bow, Vegeta righted himself to shut the locker door. Tapping the toe against the ground first, and repeating the action on the other side, he gave the new sneakers a final once over before nodding to himself.

He turned back toward her without a single glance, as if she was not even there. Regaining his usual gait as if nothing had ever been amiss, the Saiyan strode right by her as the Heiress simply stared ahead, speechless at how quickly this had turned and at a loss for how to react. Climbing the stairs behind her, she heard him pause on the sixth, and her heart fluttered with a fragile hope that he might give her some subtle sign—a nod, a look, a begrudging thanks of some description… some acknowledgment that a connection had been made in turn.

"I am a size nine, it seems." was all Vegeta offered before he left her there, standing at the bottom of the stairwell, barefoot and forgotten behind him.


	11. Nightmare

A few days had rolled by since the Saiyan Prince had demanded new sneakers, or anything at all for that matter, and despite herself, Bulma felt her world shrinking to focus upon her houseguest once again.

The two had not spoken since, and she was convinced that—between their initial argument over the footwear and the strange aversion to elevators the Heiress had witnessed of him—somehow, the pair had taken a step back… or at least, missed an opportunity to move forward.

Robbed of even the chance to check up on her guest over the course of dinner, with the Prince now taking his meals inside the ship itself, the growing questions invading Bulma's mind seemed even further away from answers than before. She knew the Saiyan apparently had no qualms in speaking to her mother; at least enough to inform her that he would be eating alone these past few days, and ensure the blonde would cater to his wishes.

But when it came to the Heiress herself, it seemed Vegeta was all too keen to avoid her entirely, making himself scarce enough that, for a while, she wondered if he'd taken off again.

Bulma wasn't sure exactly what had sparked the sudden change, at first. Her initial guess was that the Saiyan may have been embarrassed, visibly shaken as he had been that day. It was an unusual display on his part, and one she could easily guess was an intimate and private thing he normally kept hidden from others—the fact that she had not only seen it, but seized upon it to question and console, could well have caused his reticence with her since. Perhaps he feared being pestered about it as curiosity clawed at her, or thought she may try to rub it in his face and humiliate him, paranoid as he seemed to be about such things.

And yet, he'd just as quickly brushed it off thereafter, rolling his shoulders as if nothing had happened, collecting his new shoes and going about his business as normal. He hadn't been overly defensive or swift to revert to hostility; if anything, it was almost as if Vegeta wasn't truly aware of how obvious his small episode had been.

So by and by, Bulma dismissed that theory.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the sneakers themselves and how the two had, very quickly, forgone any previous diplomacy to fall into the old habit of an argument simply for argument's sake.

The Heiress, having slept on it and scoured every interaction that day for some clue as to his behaviour now, conceded that she had once again not handled it as well as she should have. Sure, neither had he, just waltzing in and demanding new shoes after shoving them in her face… but after the great pains she had gone to with the Prince now, not to reward his progress was a mistake. He  _was_  making small strides otherwise, and her taking even the slightest improvements for granted or ignoring them—no matter how well deserved her day off was—did nothing to encourage further effort on the Saiyan's part.

It was like training a puppy. One had to be diligent, and consistent with him.

Loathe as she was to admit it, he had returned to her household under the premise that she, too, would be making small compromises, after all. Even so, she didn't like the impatient expectancy he still held—whether he started asking for things or not, Vegeta still treated requests like demands, and wanted them fulfilled immediately.

But as Bulma thought long and hard about the day she had called him back, and the argument a few days earlier, she began to cross-compare the happenings between them. Seeing now how easily old habits could go sliding back into place, she found herself running over the entirety of his stay in her head, picking up the patterns where she could and making notes of them. No matter what had happened between them, whether they were on good terms or not, there had always been one suspicious constant she had neglected lurking in their midst…

…Their ' _accord'_.

Perhaps that was why, until now, the Heiress had been unable to place what exactly they were to each other, though they did hold a rapport. The day she'd flown out to the mountains had confirmed it to be mutual, even if the Prince bit back on it as best he could. Yes, both seemed able and willing enough to offend and hurt the other, but that had happened more often than not on miscommunication or issues of trust, rather than malicious intent. That, too, was mainly Vegeta's doing. The Saiyan could twist words back on themselves with such ease; it may as well have been folding paper craft. It was simply unfortunate her temper drove her to respond in kind.

Regardless, everything he did concerning her seemed to be based around this private contract he'd contrived, and yet, he still somehow managed to conveniently leave her in the dark about the specific details therein.

There was to be no relationship or rapport between them from his point of view, she realised, and it hit her on the second night as she almost choked on a sip of coffee. The only thing the Prince had made an effort to forge between them was some flimsy contract that held them both in check to one another. In fact, Vegeta tried his damnedest to keep it that way.

Many punnets of strawberries had been consumed these past few days, sacrificed as brain-fuel in pursuit what rules the accord may actually contain.

One of the conditions of living with each other was that they were  _not_  to be friends, or even able to be called willing associates; that much she was sure of. At best, they were reluctant allies in a time of war, bartering services to one another in the hope of victory over a common enemy, and nothing more. This was, even after everything they'd been through thus far, how Vegeta preferred to see her and any kindness she showed him—obligatory services forced by verbal contract.

He was determined to hold to this strict code of conduct with all his usual tenacity, and slowly, his behaviour began to make sense.

Anything more between them simply wasn't written down in the rulebook. That was why the Saiyan reverted to the very baseline of interaction with her whenever he could get away with it, withdrawing from her and wiping clean any progress made. This was strictly business in  _his_  mind. Every time she did otherwise and started to creep over the lines, she apparently broke his sacred rules, and he punished her for it in some obscure way.

One mistake on her part, and the Saiyan would force her to start over from scratch... but now, it seemed, he was looking for any little transgression he could to do it. The Prince was not willing to—or perhaps not yet even able to—relent or concede that they were, in fact,  _friends_. This 'accord' in his head was the excuse he needed to avoid that; the one thin line preventing a major breakthrough with him.

And yet it was the accord that had allowed her to talk him down from a tree and back home. It was the only thing responsible for the slim understanding they had, to begin with…

Wasn't it?

Even so, Bulma found she could no longer accept this pact comfortably, now that she'd sat down and truly studied the fine print—it wasn't terribly difficult, she just forced herself to think like a complete asshole. Clinical, detached, and a means to an end that required no true companionship or emotional investment whatsoever: by the morning of the third day, she  _knew_  that was what the accord demanded of her.

It was wrong, somehow; inhumane and impossible, not to mention the apparent cause of most of their problems. A Saiyan may not see any problem with it, or any difficulty in holding to such a way of life, but it required a coldness of heart  _she_  simply did not possess.

The Heiress was incapable of simply standing aside as he expected her to and leaving him be in a 'pile of blood and rubble'. Whenever she saw the hollow look in his gaze, or a flash of hurt swirling misty upon his features, she could not help but grow concerned, possessed by the sudden want to alleviate it. As much as she  _tried_  to withdraw from him, to just give him what he wanted and have this remain at arm's length, she simply  _couldn't_.

Her care for him—or anyone—was not something she could turn off at will, and though Bulma saw nothing wrong with this, to the Saiyan it would seem she was unable to hold up her end of the bargain; making a liar of herself. The Prince had distanced himself from her once again—probably out of disgust for her 'pitiful sentiment', or some such nonsense.

But that instinct of care was growing stronger, despite him, and slowly Bulma found her mind turning to his mental and emotional wounds as well. She couldn't stop it, and it was only going to make things worse, currently tied up in red tape as they seemed to be.

If he reacted so resentfully to mere medical attention,  _clearly_ , the Prince would have absolutely none of  _that_.

Still, she found herself wondering; what if it wasn't there? What they  _were_  friends, and if Vegeta allowed that to be their rightful place in his world of categorized control—without rules to hinder and dictate her level of care—how might things be different?

It was a deal she'd unwittingly signed, and a promise she could never have kept in the first place, let alone now. Surely, their accord had a rule about both parties being made aware if one of them couldn't hold to it, right? Like the tattered relationship she and Yamcha clung to, things would never get better than if she allowed them to stagnate. This was as much her fault as the Saiyan's, so long as  _she_   _allowed_  'the accord' to remain unchallenged—like Yamcha had said, nothing good can come of simply 'suffering' one another.

Not to mention that if she could break through  _some_  of the Prince's ice, Yamcha's warning about what he was capable of would lessen—the things he did with a cruel smile were one thing, but what about the content smile she imagined of him?

But taking away his secret weapon for controlling their proximities—dragging him out of his comfort zone—wasn't going to be easy, either. It was a leap of faith, to be sure, and Vegeta would likely fight her tooth and nail on it, but the Heiress knew there would be better things to come of it.

Now, she just had to convince  _him_.

It didn't help her case when, spotting the thick smoke pouring from the exhaust of the gravity capsule to stain the crisp morning air, Bulma had found herself sprinting across the lawns in panic—still dressed in her hideous pink nightgown, of all things.

The Heiress very nearly skidded to a halt across the grass, throwing an arm out to catch herself upon the vibrating metal of the hull and panting as a logical mind tried to keep pace with the rest of her.

Flicking open the small box on the side, she could only be thankful for the previous lesson as the inviting green of the emergency shut off switch greeted her. The very last thing she wanted to do in this situation was trap the Prince inside again, but as she'd told him once before, she learned from her mistakes when she made them. A new opening mechanism in the door allowed a slight tweak on the design, and a small battery had been included to power the hatch enough to open whenever the generator was cut.

_Just like you keep saying, Bulma, you're a total genius! Now breathe, calm… inhale…_

Without warning or hesitation, Bulma would slam her hand down upon the button once again as the powerful whir instantly began to fade and die, bringing a small comfort to her in knowing that she had foresight enough to install it. Stepping back as a sharp hiss signaled the internal latch releasing, much to her relief, cerulean eyes would track the heavy door as it lowered to open, eventually settling upon the grass to form a ramp.

Letting her body slump some for the scare, hands rose to slide twitching fingers through bead-head blue curls, not taking note of the slight tangles she found there as she let loose a small sigh.  _Oh, there we go…Now we wait for the yelling, and everything'll be back to normal…_ her brows furrowed slightly to crinkle the top of her nose, however, when she realised the rest of this day would likely be spent on repairs.

… _Yep, back to normal alright…_

There was no way to tell immediately what had gone wrong, but any malfunctions when dealing with the intense gravity he trained in could easily prove lethal. She could've smacked him for such flippant disregard of his own safety; she knew Goku well enough that a Saiyan's sense of smell was impeccable, and there was no excuse for Vegeta to not have been aware of the smoke.

_Figures… Probably waiting for another 'near death power boost', the cheating bastard._

As the very last of the mechanisms stopped firing within the machine, the silence was deafening—not a sound pervaded the air. No shuffling of feet or beeping of idle droids, and more than that, no angry cursing or growling to be heard at all. A moment of denial hit her, cynical smirk worn to mutter about the thick-headed brute as hands were held to her hips.

But as the seconds wore on with nothing gleaned of the Prince's welfare, Bulma's vision sharpened upon the open hatch with all the precision of a hawk.

A twitch ran through her legs, beckoning her to just run up the ramp and inward as soon as she could to soothe her small worry. It was an agonizingly small eternity that seemed to pass, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet anxiously as she waited for any sign of the Saiyan. Tugging nervously at the front of her nightgown, the Heiress began to chew on her bottom lip with unease.

 _Oh, come on, come_ _ **on**_ _…! Yell out or threaten me or_ _ **growl**_ _… or something!?_ she pleaded internally, slowly becoming more frantic with each passing moment.  _'What have I told you, Woman? Stop interfering!'—_ his voice ran through her head with imaginative hopefulness, but still, only silence returned to her.

When after a full minute, she could see no spiky hair or annoyed scowl, the Heiress couldn't help herself as she cupped hands around her mouth to yell.

"Vegeta! What are you doing? Get out of there, Buster, I mean it!" she winced a little for how desperate it sounded, but in that moment, concern had consumed her too far to truly care. "You can't keep training if there's no gravity! Come on!"

It was only then, as her gaze still scoured the opening for his familiar sight, that Bulma noticed the visible wave of heat escaping into the air; shimmering and warping the vision of the bold letters branding the ship as their own.

That was  _not_  a good sign. "…Vegeta!?"

Her legs moved on their own then, bare feet striking the metal in rapid succession to see her up the ramp in a flash and tearing across the threshold, only to be stopped in her tracks as she hit a wall of searing, thickened air.

"Whoa!" She flinched for it, an arm coming up to shield her face from the sudden burn—it was comparable to stepping inside a blazing furnace, stinging her eyes and settling heavy in her lungs. Blinking rapidly to keep her vision clear, her anxious gaze began to tear the capsule apart for the surly Saiyan, blue curls whipping this way and that to the turn of her head as the Heiress ran further inward.

 _Oh gods above… no, no, no…! Where is he? If he's dead, I'm going to kill him…!_  Her mind ran wild with awful possibilities, even as she rounded the small chamber in search of him like a madman in the desert chasing a mirage. _Why would he train through this kind of heat? Couldn't that idiot tell something wasn't right, or did he just not care?! Vegeta, you blockhead…!_

It was clear the Saiyan was not to be found within the main chamber. Passing a smashed defense droid on her right, she ran for the only place left for him to hide, coughing a little for the burning air around her as it dried her throat. With a shaking hand reaching to grip the handrail, Bulma was almost ready to jump down and forgo the ladder to the lower quarters entirely, but the flash of skin below gave her pause. Staring down in horror, her breath hitched as her fears were realized before her, the Heiress' stomach lurched with a wave of nausea she found hard to swallow.

Not six paces from the base of the yellow ladder, an already worn in set of sneakers was the first hint of him, as wide eyes traced upwards to see the Saiyan's crumpled and unconscious form.

… _Shit…!_

She was moving again before she had fully processed the sight, pivoting to slide down the sides of the ladder without touching a single rung in her haste. Her hands burned for the heat of the metal, enough to leave them reddened, though the Heiress didn't take any notice in her panic. Two swift bounds was all it took to see her kneeling at the Saiyan's side, frantic as shaking hands hovered helplessly over his bloody form—awful streaks lined his flesh from where the droid lasers had struck him openly.

Bulma could guess he'd become sluggish and fatigued, probably suffering from heat stroke, though it was clear he'd actually sought to take a break…even if it did come just a tad too late.

If Vegeta had the sense enough to  _attempt_  rest, that was all the evidence she needed to know how bad the situation was.

Taking to his shoulder and leaning over him closely, she gave a gentle though slightly desperate shake in the hopes of waking him. "Vegeta, can you hear me? Get up, come on, something's wrong with the generator… it's overheating, there's smoke everywhere, and it's like a hundred degrees in here! …Vegeta?" paling now with visible dismay, she continued the subtle rocking and urgently studied the lines of his face—sweat glistened on his brow, and it unnerved her to see him without his usual scowl.

His features seemed too serene, stilled and bereft of any trace of his fiery temper… almost as if his mind was no longer connected to it at all, and never had been. A cut under his left eye and smeared blood over his cheek, surrounded by light bruising over the side of his face and topped by a split brow—blunt impact. At some point, he had fallen from a height and not had the awareness or ability to protect his face from slamming into the tiles below.

The sight of him seemed to wash through her whole form and bring a shudder, wiping a heavy hand over her forehead as blue curls began to cling to her temples with sweat. The heat was blurring his outline before her and making the world seem hazy, and briefly, she entertained the hope that it was just a bad dream. Tracing a worried eye over the rest of him, the awful thought struck her that this was how he may look were he actually  _dead._

But as weak and ragged breath filtered in and out through his battered body, she could only sigh in great relief for it, hanging her head as she slumped forward.

Slender fingers brushed the thick skin of his forearm and she sent him a pleading look, drawing close to speak softly as she tucked a stray wisp of blue behind her ear. "…Hey, come on… You're really heavy, don't make me carry you…" as she said this though, her voice was already wavering to crack. Slowly moving to grip his arm, ducking her head to wrap it around her shoulders, Bulma shifted in an effort to hoist him up. "You're going on a diet when this is… over with...!"

How lucky she had been last time, she noted, that Yamcha had been there that day to help her pluck the Saiyan from the ruins.

Shifting the Prince's weight uncomfortably as she tried to pick herself up from the floor with him in tow, she struggled—the heat and task at hand made the blood pump through her skull like a drum, beckoning a headache to take hold. She coughed some as her legs threatened to buckle, but despite it, she continued to try. Pulling his arm, cheek to bloodied cheek with the Saiyan and half hunched, the Heiress managed to turn and take a few noble steps before the impossibility of the ladder haunted her vision, and her heart dropped into her feet.

Staring up at it with a frustrated whimper, her body shuddering with strain under his dead weight, she knew she had to leave him and get help. Falling to her knees in a failed crouch that made her wince, she was careful to set the Prince down as gently as she could manage onto his back, letting his arm slip from around her neck slowly and quietly apologetic for it all.

Staring down at his handsome visage marred by injury, it seemed so very far from the smile she envisioned for it, and her heart broke a little in that. A sniff took her, eyes already glassy from the heat, and rubbing her nose lightly on the back of her hand she choked back a futile sob.

Once again, he'd come to harm in one of her machines—one she'd outfitted specifically to make him more safe, and yet, here he lay all the same.  _No wonder he doesn't trust me,_ she thought, defeated and saddened by her small failure.

_This kind of temperature isn't normal, the pressure system I put in doesn't have enough coolant to deal with this… it would've shorted out a while ago. That must be why the air is so thick in here…it's almost stifling…Oh no, what if he has the bends? Plus concussion... heat exhaustion, even... why would it get this bad in the first place, that the generator would overheat? I worked through these designs myself! What did I miss?_

Staring at him, she shook her head slowly, unable to tear her eyes away; _…Vegeta, how long have you been in here like this…?_

Fearing the worst, the Heiress would move quickly to her feet again, her gaze scouring the small kitchenette until a small case on the wall was spotted. Opening it with haste, shaky hands fumbled with the emergency oxygen mask inside, and taking a small canister from the clipping, Bulma would return to kneeling beside him. Tearing the plastic with her teeth before throwing the packaging aside, a short twist of the nozzle would allow him a limited supply, enough for her to make it to the house and back. She moved carefully, making sure the breathing apparatus was in working order before affixing it to his face, sliding the strap through thick black spikes and adjusting it to sit right over his nose.

"Just wait here, Vegeta… I'll be right back, okay? Don't… don't get up… just stay…" she managed, gesturing her hands as if to reassure him and voice wavering as regret seeped up with a sting. At this point, it was more to comfort herself. "You're going to be fine... it takes more than this to stop the Prince of all Saiyans, doesn't it...?"

When the Heiress slowly stood to leave him, it pained her to tear herself away. But with only a moment's hesitation passing as one last rueful look was taken, she was up the ladder again and running faster than she had in some time, yelling out for help even before she was halfway back to the house.

* * *

 

The next two hours had been chaotic to say the least.

Pansy had been alerted to her daughter's cries for help first, abandoning her soap operas without even a thought to record them. From there, Dr. Briefs had been alerted by intercom, he too abandoning his work to leave it in the hands of the interns, but not before a concerned Goku had appeared at the scene as well. The employee emergency ward had been told to make arrangements for receiving the Prince, and a physician had been called immediately.

Having sensed the dramatic fall in Vegeta's ki from afar, Goku had paused his own training session to keep tabs on the situation just in case, but when he had felt the elevated stress levels in Bulma's energy as well, it had bad news written all over it. Knowing full well of his fellow Saiyan's penchant for self destructive training methods, the orange garbed Warrior was quick to help, stepping out of the ship with an unconscious Vegeta in tow just in time for Bulma and her father to reach it themselves. He set about getting the Prince into the safety of the compound, staying close to the rather distraught Heiress as the others prepared medical treatment.

From there, many of Bulma's fears had been confirmed with testing, once the doctor had arrived to assess things. Thankfully, the Saiyan showed no symptoms of decompression sickness, so at the very least, the gravity had shorted out before her pressure valves did. His concussion was confirmed, and fears of a possible coma came of it on the physician's part, but all in company knew that diagnosis was based on human biology and may not hold as accurately on a Saiyan patient. Even so, they agreed it would be wise to keep Vegeta awake after he did regain consciousness, especially when his dehydration and heat stroke were confirmed as well.

Placed on an electrolyte drip, the Prince had been moved into what was originally supposed to be  _his_  room, oxygen mask removed and concerned 'family members' told to monitor him closely with the air-conditioning on high. Pansy had resigned herself to worried tears in the kitchen, removed by her consoling husband. Goku had carried a desk in for Bulma and set it at Vegeta's bedside, while the Heiress retrieved her laptop and resolved, once again, to stay close at hand while her old friend offered a reassuring smile.

An optimistic pat on the shoulder, a few words about how she and Vegeta were getting on now, some thanks for his help and a sigh or so passed before Goku pressed two fingers to his brow, bidding her goodbye and seemingly vanishing into thin air. Both of them had agreed not to inform the injured Saiyan of his rival's aid or presence, knowing it would not be well received when he woke.

All the while, Vegeta's demons were running free from their cages, tearing through his mind with reckless abandon, trapped in his own head as he was for the moment and stripped of lucid control.

Smoke.

He could smell it even before the visions of his internal hell became clear, toxic and vile to be mixed upon the smell of burning flesh—a scent he knew all too well, plucked from many distant memories, but most freshly of all from one of the more recent ones. The Prince stood consumed by it, blinded by a swirling miasma as the orange glow of flames flirted with such darkness. Thick skin twitched as one or two of them reached out in the haze, fires licking at his skin with pitiful flickers, spluttering weakly in the smog.

There seemed to be no end to it, no horizon to focus upon, and gaining a stronger sense of self within it, Vegeta's gaze grew paranoid and lost.

He could've sworn he felt the flicker of ki hinting at Kakarot's presence—but as always, in such a place, his expatriate was built of fleeting taunts. No sooner had he begun to pinpoint his senses upon such power, hoping for direction or bearing, had it fled him to simply disappear all together.

 _Where have you run off to?_ A sneer came about as he ticked on the mystery, searching blindly to pick up any trace of the other.

A few steps were taken, unsteady upon uneven ground, unexpected as the earth seemed to shift beneath him unnaturally. Caught by it he would glance down, a quizzical twitch taking his features, but as he lifted his foot he found only familiar rubble where he had expected dirt and rock. Warped and twisted metals splayed out underfoot, the largest of which held bubbling paint to read 'CAP'; sticky strings of it clinging to the bottom of his sneaker as it was pulled away. At the sight, a dull sense of unease crept into his stomach, and instantly, he became aware of faint dizziness as the memory came flooding back.

… _The explosion…_

With a slight shake of his head, some private expression of confusion to himself, the Saiyan's attention lifted to peruse the thick smoke once more in question, haunted by hidden flames. He didn't know what this meant, or why he was here, but it unsettled him. There was something intimately frightening about this place his mind had forged for him, taking him back to that fateful day, but even in the midst of it, Vegeta couldn't be sure what it was.

Perhaps some lingering anxiety about foreign technology, or the fact that death had swept its bony fingers across his shoulder that day, threatening to drag him back to a fate he'd come to dread—the worst a man could bring upon himself, he knew, languishing in an afterlife of misery and agony.

A faint breeze blew hollow to stir the thick black clouds around his body, sending a few embers past in its wake as he considered such things. Tilting his head, Vegeta watched them in silence, the first few skidding past his feet aimlessly. A crackling pop came from the left of him then, unleashing a flurry of them like fireflies, landing lightly upon his flesh to prickle and sting. He flinched for them, swatting at his arms to be rid of them, and turned a frantic gaze about himself in search of some clue as to what the memory beckoned.

The fires were closing in on him, he realised, scowling as he took an instinctive step back. The vengeful glow loomed threateningly all about him, growing in their intensity with a distant roar. He was no stranger to the symbolism of being trapped or surrounded, he supposed, but something about these flames struck him as odd. They brought no sweat to his brow, nor did the embers burn—if anything, they were akin to stabbing icicles, piercing into his hide to freeze. He could smell his own skin burning in the stale air, but the heat had all but vanished.

_Why is it so cold…?_

As an obscured inferno raged higher around him, bare hands flexing at his sides pensively, the bitter chill began to seep into muscle even further. It confused his senses, sapping bodily sensation to leave him numbed to the danger that encroached. Unsure of it all, his eyes searched the darkness still, looking for escape as shivering arms crossed over his torso—he did not cross them as he did in waking. Here, he held himself limply as if to comfort, shrinking amongst the smoke and rubble and lost to it as his breathing began to draw shallow.

He knew this sinking feeling, like the life was being sucked from his bones. When finally the cold sting settled like a knife into his chest, he was sure of it, an icy chill finding an old scar to bear down upon it as if pointing to the tale it told. With a want to freeze his very heart and stop its frantic beating, the smoke twisted and writhed to lick senseless skin.

Cloaked in a chemical embrace, the husky breath of wind whispered of machinery and oil all the while. Burning rubber, a thick taste like iron upon the air and the sound of live wires sparking somewhere in the ruin, the Prince coughed for the foulest mix his tongue could endure. The lines of his regal visage twisted in disgust for it, almost pained, and he gave a desperate snort to rid the smog from his nostrils. It was overwhelming him, blurring his vision and stinging his eyes as the Saiyan struggled through the smoke.

A flash of shadow gave him pause however as he brought an arm to wipe his sight clear, and blinking, second-guessed it.

 _What… Kakarot…!?_ Whipping his head to and fro, he darted forward in desperation to catch a glimpse of it once more, though no trace of the warrior could be found.  _No… No, it wasn't him… Am I seeing things?_ But no sooner had he dismissed it did a silhouette flit across the corner of his eye, revealed by the ghostly fires.

Snapping his head to the right focus upon them, a fearsome scowl knitted his features together with malice. He saw one, lithe and quick, and then another close behind, circling him like prey as they slipped in and out of his awareness. He could sense nothing of their powers, and the darkness hid their faces from his view, but instinct betrayed them.

He needn't see them to know who they were. He knew they'd come for him, bringing his old friend death along to reclaim the one that got away.

The boy from the future had told them all what was lurking in the shadows.

Gritting his teeth with a low and desperate growl, the Prince was quick to take his stance as he tried to track them, but by the time they had gotten his notice, all movement had ceased.

"Don't play games with me…! I know you're there!" it echoed out into the shroud a fierce thing until it hit the wall of smoke, losing its volume to become a weak and vulnerable tone as it was warped and consumed by the darkness.

When he received no answer, shaking hands balling into readied fists at his sides, Vegeta forced his voice louder with every intent to cut through the shade. "Show yourselves, you cowards! Don't you dare mock me! I  _will_  have it, and when I do, I will  _ **destroy**_  you!"

Rolling twisted through the smoldering wreckage, unrecognizable and distorted as the sound traveled, the faint echo of laughter returned to him.

Unable to contain his anger as Saiyan rages flared, the Prince would launch himself at full tilt toward the very next shadow to catch his predatory gaze, a primal scream tearing from his throat to reflect all of his frustrations and fears. Like electricity sparking to life in his veins, all of the power he could muster rose up to its master's unstable call as the burst of an aura consumed him. Teeth bared and wild eyed, he sent his fist hurling forward to cut through the smoke like a blade. In that instant he felt vindicated, new energies boasting of his accomplishments thus far, and for a fleeting moment he was invincible within himself; close to his goal as promising sparks of gold took hold.

He could feel the sanguine tug of something more, bubbling as the first few drops overflowed from the hidden well within—if only he could strike them, feel the bones and cartilage part and give way under his fist with a wet snap… the floodgates would unleash the deluge he thirsted for.

But when his blow found slim purchase, he was halted there, his own bones shunted painfully in recoil as they connected with what felt like a wall. Unmoving and unmerciful, the chilling feel of a foe's fingers curled effortlessly over his own to stop him there, hitching his breath where he stood.

The smoke dissipated slowly, pushed back from the force of such impact, and as more of the sickly white hand was revealed, the sweet flicker of hope fled him as well. Black fingernails bit into his knuckles, and with a force he could not hope to replicate, his fist was manipulated painfully back on itself; using the leverage of his wrist against him to wrench a pained gasp from the Prince.

Though the discomfort moved him to lower himself, seeking instinctual relief from such torment, his heart sank even further still. Vegeta stared wide eyed, blanched by horror as it washed through him to replace swiftly fading power, he could feel himself sinking lower. Finally pressured to kneel, the laughter returned.

He recognized it now… indeed, he could never forget such a terrible sound.

… _Frieza…_

Black lips curled to reveal pearly white teeth, a fond and almost greedy curve gracing them slowly as the smoke continued its retreat—even death itself seemed to cower away in fear, when tempered by the strains of his mind.

"Vegeta…" the regal tone slithered out with amusement, holding all the charm of an old friend though he laced it with a cruel and tactful superiority. "…Still chasing that old legend? How  _dull_."

Jaw clenched with enough force to crack teeth, dark eyes met the eerie flash of the Tyrant's own red irises, and the very last of his strength left him. Desperate to rise from the forced kneel—simply unable to stomach such a thing—Vegeta poured all of his will into his legs, wishing for the power he'd built p moments ago to flow through his veins and release him from this insulting hold. Unable to even pull his arm back and free, the Prince clawed at the wrist of his most hated foe, though for all his efforts, it drew only an amused scoff from the overlord.

All at once the despair came flooding back as the Saiyan struggled, and knowing he could not overcome such power, just as on Namek, his will to fight began to wane.

Shackled within the confines of such mental chains, these old demons that darkened every corner of his mind with uncertainty and doubt, he would not stand. He couldn't.

No matter how much strength he garnered in waking ours, when he found himself here in the depths of slumber, his weakness was law. Vegeta was no more in control than the isolated boy he had been upon the Tyrant's ship; wondering when his Father would come for him and waiting for salvation that would never arrive.

Each nightmare haunted him so, for he never truly knew if they would end. There were occasions in his young life when he would awaken with a start and call out to those long passed, expecting to find himself back in his palace chambers and desperately searching the room for familiar things to comfort. Each time, he was left instead to stare at the blank white walls and uniform black tile of a tiny space expected to house three, clutching the thin sheets of military bunk while Nappa snored above and Raditz stirred enough send the child an odd look from the floor.

The greatest of his nightmares had turned out to be reality, after all.

The Prince closed his eyes tight with a want to wake, shaking his head forcefully as if to rid his ears of the sound of the Tyrant's voice. He would not relent in full, grounding out pained words as the pressure on his wrist increased, threatening to crack suddenly feeble bone.

"N-no… It's real. I've  _seen_  it, and so have you…!" with the last shred of tattered pride, he held his head high and returned a glare that glinted with absolution, unwavering in his defiance of the old Lord as he hissed. "I'm stronger than he was when he fought you. I've surpassed the point at which Kakarot transformed on Namek, and I grow stronger by the day! It is only a matter of time before I too become a Super Saiyan!"

Frieza watched with an amused coyness as Vegeta seethed below, though there was no anger to breach the serpentine features as he stared him down. The sleek form he wore boasted of superior power—the skin he wore when he had felled the Saiyan—and an idle flick of his fleshy tail behind was the only movement to the otherwise still Tyrant. He did not strain his grip even as Vegeta renewed his struggle to rise against it. Effortlessly putting the Prince in his rightful place, the overlord would squeeze the captured fist to break fingers, returning him to his knees with another strangled sound of agony.

Calm and collected, he gave a thoughtful tilt of his head, providing Vegeta a perfect view of his own defeated state from the reflection upon glasslike purple flesh.

"Pride isn't Power… Need I remind you that these delusions have cost you dearly before?" there was feigned pity lingering in the low tone, bored and factual as an icy gaze swept the scar where, once, a killing blow had pierced Vegeta's heart.

The corner of his black mouth ticked. "It's only fitting, I suppose, that you would turn to the embodiment of an old enemy in your obsession with myth and history… Isn't that just like you, though, to go back on your own creeds when the means justify the end? A traitor in every facet, even to yourself… What would your dear father think; to see you so dependant on weaklings and would-be Tuffles…?"

"My Father would think only of how best to see you die! If it meant making an ally of unlikely sources, so be it!" he argued forcefully, his voice graveled and coarse with hatred. "She may share similar traits to them, true enough, but the Earthling does not think me a slave where you and Tufflekind would! I know she won't rest until we've both achieved the victory we set out for!"

Slowly, the Tyrant's free hand drifted toward the mark, and the Saiyan's dark gaze followed the movement with silent panic, blood running cold with what he found there.

Held gently between black nailed fingers was the blue ignition key—the key to his power, the very symbol of his accord with the Woman—glinting back at him with cruel irony.

"She's as delusional as you are if you both think a few technological marvels will save you. But, as I discovered after so many years of disappointment returned for my charity toward you, Vegeta, she'll find her efforts fruitless in the end. You talk a big game, but when it comes right down to the nitty gritty, dear Prince, you can  _never_  back it up."

The tip of it was pressed into the mottled skin sharply, twisted to draw a slim rivulet of blood. The Saiyan winced under the sting of it, far harsher than it ought to have been as the trickle cleaved an incarnadine streak down his side, and through it all, the Tyrant continued his verbal assault.

"Four day assignments dragged out to a week, even with your fellow primates tagging along. Constant medical tank sessions despite your claims to swift Saiyan healing… Biting off more than you could chew when picking fights with my officers over ration allotments. Droning on and on about being a Super Saiyan with that cocky grin, only to be put into a grave shortly after…"

As the Prince's gaze fell away, caught staring at the rubble beneath him as a sense of helpless dread washed over his cold form—venom from such poisonous words—Frieza's hand fell away to leave the key embedded into his bleeding chest. A grimace swept the overlord's features unseen by the Saiyan, and the cruel flash of crimson eyes swept him as a disgrace.

"I do hope you apologized to the Good King for such misplaced faiths, when you were reunited in Hell… Send my condolences to the poor woman for falling into the same trapping as he did."

Beaten down by the demons of his mind and weary of them now, lashed by the darkness that lurked there, Vegeta's head hung as he endured such pains. His eyes cracked open to the sight of the key, still stuck fast into scarred flesh, and his throat felt dry as vile air cycled shallow through it. Despite everything, standing on the very brink of his internal defenses, the Prince would strain to speak still, giving flimsy denial in the vague hope that it would be truth when he woke.

"…Then I'll… I'll train harder still…" he offered weakly, barely above a whisper as the ghost of his usual scowl flickered over his visage. "I will prove myself worthy… and you, and Kakarot, and everyone else will see my true destiny unfold in spite of you all."

"Even  _I_  didn't think you were this foolish, Vegeta… But, if you've indeed surpassed your little friend's turning point, perhaps now it will be clear."

A devilish smile flirted upon the corners of his lips, dimples forming to move the lines of his cheeks and crimson eyes closing to the pathetic sight of the fallen Prince. "Your destiny has  _always_  been to cling to this poisonous dream of yours, watching the clock ticking away, until out of time and with nothing to show for it… you  _perish_  like the rest of them."

It struck with such quiet force, whispered delicately to languish there between them as the last of Vegeta's spirit left him slumped there, sapped with the rest of his power as the icy tyrant stood firm. Dark eyes wavered upon the feet of the specter that haunted him still, and the cold claw of doubt that had set about sinking talons into his heart finally broke through to tear it asunder. The smoke had returned cautiously to billow around them once again, a haze of the unknown, closing in with that awful and deathly chill.

 _Wh…What if he's right…?_   _If I'm not strong enough… No, even if I continue at this rate… If I can't transform, I'll just… be…_ Torturing him even further, as if this vision was not enough, Vegeta's own voice echoed all around them as if the smog contained a thousand hidden mouths, drawing the Tyrant's smile into a wide and vicious grin of satisfaction.

_Kakarot could do it… by this point, I_ _**saw** _ _him do it…But, why…? Why can't I do the same? Even that boy from the future, he… he doesn't even_ _**look** _ _like a Saiyan, and yet…I am an Elite, a Saiyan Prince, it should be my right alone that… my… my_ _**birthright;** _ _the reason I live and breathe at all… but even now, after everything… I can't even get close…?_

_If I'm not… If I_ _ **can't**_ _… What if It's… just like before…?_ Slowly, the presence of even Frieza before him began to grow distant as the shadows came like a shroud to cover him, and the Saiyan's gaze lost the very last of its fire; hollow as sorrowful despair seeped in to stare blankly into darkness.

… _Will I really die… so easily again?_

Then it came, drifting upon the faint breeze to find him lost within the smoke, and like a torch to drive back the darkness, another voice filled the vile air to lend him strength.

"Shh, Vegeta…You won't. It's just a bad dream…"

The pain in his wrist was gone, the hand that held his no longer a dominating thing, but a soft and gentle brush of fingers upon his knuckles. Blinking as he was snapped from such dark reveries, Vegeta cold not pinpoint when the change had come, but suddenly he found the rubble beneath was grass—green, crisp and neatly tended, like the lawns outside his capsule. He could smell no smoke; no trace of the warped machinery or the stench of burning oils or flesh. He felt the hand shift to unfurl his injured fist, easing beneath it to hold and support as the Prince lifted his head, and the Tyrant was nowhere to be found; banished by her voice.

Cream flesh replaced sickly white, and cerulean wavered over him instead of the cold crimson stare.

His brow twitched as her laid weary eyes upon hers, furrowing to question as he watched her warm and worried smile replace the mocking black lips from before. Surprise flashed unsure across the lines of his face, sudden epiphany sweeping him as he found he was liberated, free to stand as the woman beckoned him upward. Shaky on now stable ground, the Prince rose upward slowly, half expecting some awful trickery to melt her skin and reveal the cruelty being done as Frieza's face reclaimed hers.

"…Wh… What did you say…?"

Yet no further horrors would come while she stood there it seemed, her voice lilting around him once again, sounding so very close he could almost feel her breath upon his cheek. "There you go… Shhh… you're okay, Vegeta. You're safe, and the doctor gave you a tentative clear… there was an accident, but you're going to be fine…"

Bewildered by it—and at a loss for how to respond to such confusing information—the flame haired prince could only stare at the strange apparition of her. Why was she here? She had never entered his dreams before, but suddenly, a dream was all it ever seemed to be; the strain of it lessening toward that realization. His mouth ghosted a few syllables but nothing came of it, and unable to place the odd sensation she stirred of encouragement—seemingly bolstering his resolve within himself—Vegeta wondered of it all.

Silent as he regarded her, studying her gorgeous features with morbid bemusement and unabated shock, the Saiyan barely managed a whisper when his voice returned with an incredulous squint. As it left him, the very last of the smoke vanished to become an inviting golden light.

"An… accident…?"

He questioned it autonomously; taken aback by the news—in the chaos of it all Vegeta frowned pensively, straining to recall such a thing. A flash stole his vision, filling the scene with reddened light and the whir of the gravity capsule, and a blunt pain began to throb through his head. Cringing as the sensation grew stronger, he stumbled back a step to recoil from it, an uncomfortable pressure spreading across the side of his face and seeping into his eye socket. His hand rose to gingerly soothe the hurt, brushing over the side of his temple to trail down his jaw line, and the fleeting vision of blurred tiles beneath him echoed strong.

Blinking away the brunt of his discomfort, his eyes would open to focus upon her once again, dark gaze wavering over the reassuring blue of her own as he cautiously licked his lips to speak.

"How long will it be… before I can train again? Is the ship damaged?"

Seemingly satisfied now that he had come to stand, Bulma removed her hand from his to settle it on her hip, offering a relieved and considerate sort of laugh that confirmed what she'd said once before—a _thing is never going to be more important than a person_.

"Yeah, sorry… the ship's a little bit under the weather. But trust me; I think you came out worse. Don't worry, Vegeta, it's still intact… we got you out of there before anything too drastic happened…"

Idle, his hands flexed by his sides as he took this in stride, weighing what the next few days would cost him as a rueful sort of grimace twisted his mouth. Brows knitting together, Vegeta would draw a slow and steadying inhale, letting it slip in a sigh—he knew there was no helping it. The wayward echo of a thought distantly sounded to roll across the grass aimlessly, wondering what had happened to send an otherwise ordinary training session into yet another setback.

Staring at the grass between their feet, drops of dew to be found glistening gold in the light there, he gave a small and accepting nod.  _The emergency shut off,_ his mind ventured it with ease, and again, Bulma's word was confirmed; not a method of control, but one of safety. A cynical smirk found him, ghosting the curve of his mouth, and dark eyes closed for it as the pieces began to fall into place.

"…You're at my bedside again, aren't you, Woman?" shaking his head lightly, he glanced up at the apparition of her, and the smirk faded into something more solemn. It made sense now—she was talking to him as he slept, and apparently, he was talking back through a haze of unconsciousness. "You just can't help yourself… I could tell you a thousand times, and it'd still be the same…" he scoffed lightly, unsurprised in all honesty, though his usual condemnation did not stain his tired voice. "…You bleeding heart, leave your sentiments out of this… All this coddling is going to hold me back even more."

Silence drifted between them uncertainly for a moment, and the image of her flickered as if about to fade and weaken, a strange look of pathos marring her relief as it did. He heard her sigh, her head inclining with her own doubts, but just as quickly as they came, she banished them from her features to perk up; determined to push through. With a playful wink that caught the Prince aback, unused to her presence in such a manner as it was, let alone the apparent power she held in his own mind to sway him, the Heiress shook her head lightly.

"No way… I'm letting you off that easy, Buster. You've gotta rest right now, so say whatever you want, I'm staying put." She smirked benignly, wagging a finger at him in point. "It's okay, Vegeta, I'll make sure you won't fall behind; trust me. After all the trouble you've put me through, if you're not a super Saiyan by the end of this, I'll slap you so hard you'll see the curvature of the Earth. That would  _not_  be cool, okay?"

The golden light grew stronger and threatened to eclipse her. On instinct, spurred to move in curiosity, he took a step toward her, but the woman only seemed to fade further from his vision; ethereal as this world began to slip away. "I made a mistake, Vegeta, but I've learned from it. I promise this'll be the very last… There's going to be a few changes to things, but if you just stick with me on this, it'll turn out better for everyone. Just try not to be a  _complete_  jerk about it, okay?"

The pain was fading from the side of his face and the old scar that the key had pierced as her voice drifted around him, and the Prince felt himself losing his grip this strange hybrid of dream and reality, dark eyes tiredly tracing the very last faint outline of where the woman had stood.

"Change…? What kind of… changes…? Woman… what mistake…? J-just… Just fix… the ship…" he offered in the haze of reverie, even his own voice leaving the body he had forged here to echo as thought.

… _Keep to the Accord…_

"But, don't worry about that right now… After all, it  _is_  a Friday. Just rest up, take a day, and you'll be back at it before you know it…" he heard her say, drifting distant as he began to wander into the light without purpose, as if drawn to follow. The further he ventured, his steps soft upon the grass, the heavier his eyelids became. Finally they were closed, and his body light; sense of self waning within this place as his steps faded with it.

"…Wake up soon, Vegeta."


End file.
